He Kissed Me Before Finals

The morning of my biggest presentation, the universe decided to hate me. My alarm didn’t ring. My roommate used my only clean blouse. And when I finally sprinted across campus with my half-finished slides and an overfilled coffee cup, the universe delivered the final blow—in the form of six feet of walking arrogance. The collision was fast and messy and smelled strongly of espresso. Hot liquid splashed across my shirt and notes. My laptop bag hit the ground with a tragic thud. And the responsible guy stood there, blinking at me as if he couldn’t believe I existed. “Watch where you’re going!” I snapped, trying to save what was left of my dignity and my report on corporate ethics. He looked down at me—tall, infuriatingly good-looking, with dark hair, golden skin, and the kind of smirk you wanted to wipe off with a dictionary. “You walked into me,” he said coolly, brushing coffee off his gray hoodie. I blinked. “Excuse me?” “You weren’t looking,” he said. “I was.” “Oh, you saw me coming and still didn’t move?” His lips curved. “Maybe I wanted to see what would happen.” That smirk. That voice. That stupid confidence. And then it hit me—I knew exactly who he was. Liam Hart. Campus soccer god. Straight A’s in charm, failing grade in humility. The kind of guy who turned heads and ruined GPAs. I groaned inwardly. Of course, it had to be him. He looked at the spreading brown stain on my notes. “That looks expensive.” “It’s my presentation. For Professor Martins. The one worth forty percent of my grade.” He tilted his head, pretending to think. “Then I guess you should’ve ordered a smaller coffee.” I stared at him, speechless. Somewhere behind us, the café door chimed. Students were whispering. Liam Hart—the Liam Hart—was arguing with an angry girl in a coffee-stained shirt. Great. Now I was trending in real life. “Unbelievable,” I muttered, crouching to grab my soaked papers. He knelt beside me, his hand brushing mine—warm, calloused, and annoyingly gentle. “Here,” he said, handing me a napkin. “Don’t cry.” “I’m not crying.” “You look like you’re about to.” I glared at him. “And you look like you’re about to regret speaking.” For a moment, he laughed—a low, lazy sound that didn’t match his sharp eyes. “You’ve got fire. I like that.” “Save it for someone who cares,” I shot back, snatching my bag. “I have a class to fail.” I walked off before he could reply, my shoes squeaking against the floor and my pride dripping like my shirt. Behind me, I heard him say softly, “You’re welcome, sweetheart.” I didn’t turn around. Because if I had, I might’ve thrown the rest of my coffee in his stupidly handsome face. ⸻ By noon, the story of the Coffee Girl was already campus gossip. Apparently, someone recorded the whole scene. By lunch, the video had twenty thousand views on the student forum. Perfect. I wasn’t just late to class—I was internet famous. “Look on the bright side,” my roommate Jess said as I collapsed onto my dorm bed that afternoon. “At least your hair looked amazing in the video.” “Jess, I’m ruined. Everyone thinks I’m obsessed with Liam Hart.” “Well…” She chewed on her lip. “You did call him a walking ego.” “Because he is!” Jess grinned. “That’s what made it go viral.” I groaned into my pillow. “I just want to survive until finals.” But fate—or karma—wasn’t finished with me yet. Because the next morning, when I walked into my tutoring job at the Academic Center, guess who was sitting there, legs stretched out, holding a coffee cup like nothing had ever happened? Liam. Smirking. And holding my ruined notes. He lifted them casually. “Found these in the trash. Thought you might want them back.” I froze. “You’re not my student.” “Not yet,” he said, leaning back in the chair. “But I failed the economics midterm, so guess who the dean assigned as my tutor?” My jaw dropped. “You’re joking.” “I don’t joke. Especially about cute tutors.” My brain short-circuited. This was some twisted universe payback. “Fine,” I said, crossing my arms. “But let’s get one thing straight—I don’t care who you are. You’re just another student to me.” He grinned. “Sure, Coffee Girl. Whatever helps you sleep.” My cheeks burned. “Stop calling me that!” He leaned forward, eyes glinting with mischief. “Make me.” I hated him. Absolutely hated him. So, naturally, it made perfect sense that five hours later, thanks to one crowded cafeteria and one very stupid accident, my lips would end up pressed against his—in front of everyone. But that, unfortunately, is a story for Chapter Two.