The Johnsons’ Stolen Legacy

Chapter 3 - First meeting Eric & Hannah

The campus coffee shop was louder than usual for a Tuesday afternoon. Midterms were coming up, and every table was taken by stressed students surrounded by open laptops and highlighters.

Eric stood in line, scrolling through his phone, pretending to be absorbed in an email from his dad about some invoice mix‑up back home. In reality, he was just trying not to think about the fact that he was here on a scholarship while half the people around him treated this place like a slightly colder resort.

“Next!”

He looked up, ordered his coffee, and stepped aside to wait. As he did, the girl in front of him shifted her bag, bumping his arm. A notebook slipped from her hand and fell open on the floor.

“Sorry,” she said, dropping to her knees to grab it.

“It’s fine,” Eric answered automatically, already bending down at the same time. Their hands landed on the same page.

He saw neat handwriting, a few doodles in the margin, and at the top of the page: Comparative Politics – Notes.

He glanced up. Brown hair in a messy bun. Tired eyes but a faint, stubborn spark in them. She smiled, a little embarrassed.

“Thanks,” she said, taking the notebook. “I keep dropping things today.”

“Rough class?” he asked.

“Rough week,” she corrected him. “Two shifts at the bookstore, one insane professor, and a roommate who thinks ‘quiet hours’ are a suggestion.”

He huffed out a laugh. “Sounds… familiar.”

She studied him for a second, as if deciding whether he was making fun of her or actually understood.

“You a poli‑sci major too?” she asked.

“Business and economics,” Eric said. “With a minor in suffering.”

That got a real smile. “I’m Hannah.”

“Eric.”

Before she could say more, someone behind them cleared their throat loudly. The line had moved; they were blocking the way. She stepped aside with her coffee, and he followed out of pure reflex.

“Do you… want to sit?” she asked, nodding at a tiny table near the window. “I promise I only complain for the first five minutes.”

He considered saying no. He should go finish the problem set he was already behind on. He should call his dad back. He should be practical.

“Sure,” he heard himself say.

They sat. Outside, cold autumn sun lay across the campus lawns. Inside, the air smelled like burnt espresso and cheap pastries.

“So,” Hannah said, wrapping her hands around her cup. “Business and economics. Is that because you love numbers, or because someone told you it was sensible?”

Eric smirked. “Can’t it be both?”

“Statistically, no.”

He laughed again, surprised by how easy it felt.

---

Meanwhile: Charles and Megan

Across the room, at a table already crowded with people, Charles was holding court. He had his varsity jacket slung over the back of his chair despite the fact that they weren’t anywhere near a game today. A couple of guys from his team laughed too loud at something he had just said.

Megan sat beside him, legs crossed, scrolling on her phone. She glanced up only when she heard him say his own last name.

“…Dad says the Johnson Industry internship program is going to be insane this summer,” Charles said. “Honestly, I might just skip the line and go straight into the Columbus branch. Why waste time fetching coffee for people I’m going to outrank?”

The table laughed again. Megan smiled, but it was mostly muscle memory. She had heard some version of this speech a hundred times.

Her eyes drifted over the room, not because she was looking for Eric—she barely registered his existence yet—but because she was bored. She clocked people the way other rich kids did: clothes, posture, who they sat with.

Her gaze passed right over Eric and Hannah by the window. Two students, two coffees, a pile of notes. Nothing important.

“Hey,” one of the girls at the table said to Megan, “are you still coming to the meeting later?”

“What meeting?” Megan asked absently.

“That student group I told you about,” the girl replied. “The one with the protests and… you know. They’re doing a panel about power structures on campus.”

Megan almost rolled her eyes. “Is this the thing where they complain about dining hall workers’ wages again?”

“It’s about more than that,” the girl said. “They’re… intense, but kind of interesting. You’d actually like them.”

Megan hesitated. She didn’t care about wages or power structures. She cared that she was bored, that her brother could talk for twenty minutes straight about their family business and never once ask what she wanted to do with her life.

“Maybe,” she said finally. “Text me the time.”

She said it casually, like it meant nothing. But it would be the first thread that would pull her into something larger, something angrier, something that would one day give her new language for her frustration.

For now, she flipped her hair back, smiled at Charles and stole a fry from his plate.

“Don’t eat those,” she said. “Coach is going to murder you at weigh‑in.”

“I’m a Johnson,” Charles said, grinning. “I’ll be fine.”

---

Back to the window

“So where are you from?” Hannah asked, stirring her coffee.

“Maine,” Eric said. “Small town called Warren. Not far from the coast. Lots of woods, some tourists, and way too much fog.”

“Sounds nice,” she said.

“It is,” he answered, and for a second he could almost smell the damp air in the mornings, hear the distant hum of boats on the water. “What about you?”

“Ohio,” she said. “Not the rich suburb part. The… other part.”

He almost told her then. Hey, I know Ohio. My… extended family lives there. They have this giant house and a company and a hundred secrets. Instead, he took a sip of his coffee.

“Ohio and Maine,” she said thoughtfully. “That’s a lot of weather.”

“Yeah,” he replied. “But at least it’s real.”

She looked at him, as if she’d just noticed something in his answer. A small line formed between her brows, a mixture of curiosity and recognition.

“Real is good,” she said. “I’m kind of tired of people who are… curated.”

He thought of his last Christmas in Ohio. The mansion. The way everyone behaved like they were constantly being watched and judged.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”