What We Leave Unsaid | College Romance | Love Triangle

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘖𝘯𝘦

I'm not a messy person.

My journals are spread out, my notes are color-coded, and my sticky tabs are all labeled. Academically, I'm right on track. Yet I've never felt more lost. And if it weren't for the bright green-eyed pretty boy handing me my go-to espresso, I'd probably, definitely spiral into my usual self-criticizing cacoon.

"White flat with a dash of cinnamon." His voice is gentle and warm, a total contrast to the gray weather outside. As he places the mug beside my laptop, I notice the friendship bracelet peeking out of his sweater sleeve. It's worn and frayed, and the colors are dull. The word Luke poorly embroidered in the center. I made it for him years ago, during my macramé phase.

"Thanks, Taylor." I give him a soft smile, and when he returns it with his own, I can feel the weight on my shoulders trickling down my spine. For a minute my mind is clear, and I could care less about my ethics homework. Aaaand that's my cue to return to my coffee.

"I saw your crazy setup and figured it was a white flat kind of day. Then again, it's not that different from your usual environment." He sits back, relaxed with his ankle resting on the opposite knee. I raise an eyebrow, trying not to give away my amusement.

"And what's that supposed to mean? My usual environment?"

"You know, the scattered papers and the highlighted planners. Not to mention that serious 'don't interrupt me' energy you always give off. It's got Emma Hayes written all over it." His grin is teasing, but there's something else in his gaze - something warm and steady that makes my stomach flip.

"Sounds about right," I admit, taking a sip of my coffee. The warmth spreads through me. I don't know if it's Luke's uncanny ability to read my mood or the bracelet on his wrist - a reminder of a time when life wasn't so heavy - but for the first time today, I feel like I can breathe.

"You've been here for hours, huh?" His tone is casual, but his eyes scan the table as if trying to decode the mess. I shrug, trying not to sound as drained as I feel.

"We've got this ethics debate coming up. I've found my topic but...I don't know, something feels off." Luke nods like he understands, and maybe he does.

"You're overthinking it. You always do. Just take a breather. You got this, Hayes." He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. It's moments like this when I appreciate Luke the most. He knows how to lift me up. He always has. I take in his calming presence, and my gaze drifts down to his hands. The linear scar reaches between his thumb and index finger, down to his wrist. It's much faded now, but I watch him trace it with the opposite hand from memory.

When we were about eight, he tried to rescue his younger cousin who tried climbing the tree and got stuck. He reached out and lost his grip, slicing his hand on a sharp edge of bark during the fall. That pretty much sums up Luke Taylor. Even at the cost of himself, he's always looking out for others.

Before I can reply, my laptop chimes. An email pops up, my professor's name in bold type. I set my coffee down and click the mousepad.

Subject: Request for Assistance During Study Hall

Emma Hayes,

I hope this email finds you well. I'm reaching out to ask for your assistance during an upcoming study hall on Wednesday, September 6th from 3:00 pm to 5:00 pm in the Humanities Building.

A new transfer student will be joining us, and I believe your familiarity with the course material would be incredibly helpful in making their transition smoother. Your insights and support could make a big difference in helping them acclimate to the class and feel comfortable.

If you have any questions or concerns, please don't hesitate to stop by my office or classroom beforehand. I appreciate your willingness to help and look forward to seeing you at the session.

Best regards,

Oliver Hawthorne

Professor of Ethics

Humanities Building, Philosophy Wing, Office 5B

As I scan the email I can feel my chest expanding. My stomach flutters and I can't pinpoint its exact cause. Whether it's the caffeine, the flattery from the email, or the anxiety of potentially making a fool of myself to this new student. Honestly, it could be all three.

I dig out a separate planner from my tote bag and flip through its worn, scribble-filled pages. I find September 6th, two days from now, and fill in the brief info.

"Everything okay, Em?" Luke's tone is curious and genuine.

"Yeah, sorry. My ethics professor wants me to help out a transfer student this week, so I should prepare the material before then. Thanks for the coffee." I flash a smile and collect my things in my arm, placing my laptop in my tote bag.

"Yeah, sure. No problem. Let me know if you need another pick-me-up or a charming distraction," he says with a teasing grin. I nod, smiling faintly, but as I leave the café, my mind spirals.

With this new tutoring priority, I have to prepare fast. Contemporary Moral Problems is next, but what if they haven't finished Environmental Ethics? Should I bring notes from that course? I don't want to overwhelm them. Or worse—what if they're unprepared? Or overconfident? What if I waste hours crafting the perfect plan only for it to—

A sudden impact jars me back to reality. I've collided with someone, and now our belongings are scattered across the floor. I glance up at him—a tall, broad-shouldered figure standing stiff in charcoal-black chinos and polished leather boots.

"Sorry!" I drop to my knees, grabbing at the mess. A book catches my attention—Meditations by Marcus Aurelius, with neat, cursive annotations lining the margins. Worn but cared for. Next to it, a leather-bound journal, its spine creased but sturdy.

"I should've been paying attention," I say quickly, stuffing loose papers into my bag. He crouches smoothly, gathering my things without a word. When he pauses, his hand resting on one of my books, I freeze. He notices me staring and hands it back, his expression unreadable.

"Thank you," I stammer, my voice cracking slightly as I rise. He stands too, towering above me. His dark button-down is crisp despite the mishap, sleeves rolled neatly to reveal strong forearms.

"It's fine," he says softly. There's a faint smile on his face as he collects his books with an ease that feels practiced, his long fingers brushing the worn covers like they belong to him.

"At least it wasn't coffee," he quips, his voice low and smooth, drawing my eyes to the subtle movement of his Adam's apple. But it's his face that truly holds me captive. His sharp jawline leads to high cheekbones, and his slightly arched brows lend him a naturally thoughtful expression. Then there are his eyes—deep, reflective brown and almond-shaped, with a quiet intensity that feels like they're always peeling back layers of the world around them. Right now, they're focused on me, and I can't shake the sense he's studying me as much as I am him.

When our gazes meet, a shiver runs through me, sharp and electric, like I've stumbled into something I shouldn't but can't resist. It's almost enough to distract me from the faint scent lingering in the air around him—sandalwood, lavender, and just a hint of cardamom. The fragrance feels oddly familiar, like the edge of a memory I can't quite grasp.

I clear my throat, forcing myself to break eye contact. "Uh, thanks again," I mumble, clutching my now-assembled belongings like they're a lifeline. Before I can say something else—something awkward, no doubt—I turn and hurry toward the building exit.

The crisp air outside feels like a shock through my system, but it doesn't stop my thoughts from racing. I keep replaying the moment his eyes locked onto mine, the way his quiet intensity seemed to see right through me. And that scent—it's going to haunt me. Like a song you can't get out of your head. Oh god. I probably looked like a complete fool—clumsy, awkward, and totally uncoordinated.

I shake my head, trying to refocus. There's too much to do—notes to prepare, topics to review, life to organize. But as I make my way across campus, my steps falter. Because, despite my best efforts to move on, one question lingers: What was he thinking?