A Love Meant To Be

Chapter 10

The club room buzzed with last-minute chaos—half-taped banners flapping, coffee cups stacked like a monument to sleeplessness, and team members darting around with to-do lists and semi-panicked expressions.

Raya, Tessa, and Hana stood near the back table, reviewing event rosters.

Tessa muttered, “I swear if one more person forgets how spreadsheets work, I’m becoming a forest witch.”

Raya smirked. “And I’ll help build your cottage. With an anti-email charm.”

The door opened with a distinct creak, followed by the sound of authoritative footsteps.

Professor Langston, in his ever-intimidating beige blazer and perpetual look of intellectual disappointment, stepped in with a clipboard and the air of a man who once read your entire soul and found a typo.

The room froze.

Then—

Ryan stepped forward.

“Good morning, Professor Langston,” he said with that calm, assertive voice he only pulled out in public or during crises. “We’ve got the main booths finalized, the performance schedules in order, and vendor coordination is running smoother than expected.”

Langston peered over his glasses. “So I’ve heard. Impressive... Mr. Reynolds.”

He flipped through the papers on his clipboard. “I was concerned after last year’s—shall we say—‘glow stick incident.’”

“That was a structural miscalculation,” Ryan replied smoothly. “This year, no open flames, no glow sticks, and a thirty-foot radius from any cotton candy machine.”

Eli coughed in the corner. “Safety is sexy.”

Ryan didn’t flinch. “And sanity is non-negotiable.”

Professor Langston cracked a rare smile. “Good. Walk me through the floor plan.”

Ryan led him toward the whiteboard with the layout, explaining logistics, backup plans, volunteer shifts, and emergency contacts. His tone stayed even, confident, efficient. He answered every question without stumbling, threw in a witty line here and there, and even corrected a mislabel on the map mid-sentence.

From the back, Tessa leaned toward Raya and whispered, “Okay… why is he suddenly hot in a meeting-minutes kind of way?”

Raya blinked. “He’s always like this.”

Tessa smirked. “Yeah, but now it’s in a ‘look at him lead’ kind of way.”

Raya glanced away, not replying—but her fingers fidgeted slightly with her pen.

Just then, Hana clapped softly from beside them. “He’s doing so well!”

Tessa turned to her with a grin. “You sound like you’re cheering at a soccer match.”

“I mean, he deserves it,” Hana said brightly. “He’s been organizing everything nonstop. It’s kind of amazing.”

Raya’s pen snapped in half.

She stared at it. “Ugh. Cheap plastic.”

Tessa gave her a side-eye smirk. “Or emotional tension.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.”

Back at the front, Langston gave a nod of approval. “Reynolds, I must admit—I’m impressed. If you keep this up, the festival might actually go off without a catastrophic explosion.”

“No promises,” Ryan said with a subtle grin. “But we’re aiming for fireworks only in the metaphorical sense.”

Langston turned to the group. “Keep this momentum, everyone. I’ll be back on Friday for the final walkthrough. And I expect the same level of… excellence.”

He left with a dramatic flap of his clipboard.

The second the door closed, the club members exhaled collectively.

Eli flopped into a chair. “We lived. I saw my life flash before my eyes. It was mostly coffee and unpaid labor.”

Hana beamed at Ryan. “Seriously, that was awesome. You made Professor Langston smile. That’s like, myth-level achievement.”

Ryan shrugged modestly. “Just doing my job.”

Raya looked up, tone too casual. “Hmm. Guess even chaos needs a captain sometimes.”

Ryan glanced at her, a subtle spark in his eyes. “You saying I’m the captain?”

Raya smirked. “I’m saying the ship hasn’t sunk. Yet.”

Eli pointed at them both. “Tension. Banter. A ship metaphor. We’re in too deep.”

Tessa sighed dramatically. “I’m updating my spreadsheet with: ‘Raya definitely has a type.’”

Raya rolled her eyes. “I will delete your spreadsheet and your hopes.”

But behind the eye-roll and dry tone, there was a flicker in her chest. One she didn’t want to name yet.

Late Night, Raya’s Dorm Room

The room was quiet, lit only by the soft amber glow of the desk lamp and the faint, flickering fairy lights strung above their beds. Outside, the campus had fallen into its usual 1 a.m. hush—just distant footsteps and the occasional hum of a passing car.

Raya sat cross-legged in bed, notebook open, pen hovering over the page. She’d gotten used to this little nightly ritual—write it all out, clear her head, pretend she had more control than she really did.

Across the room, Tessa was perched at her desk, hunched over her laptop, typing with a steady rhythm. Her brows furrowed in concentration, lips moving silently as she edited whatever idea had taken over her brain this time.

Probably another draft of festival pitches. Tessa had been obsessing over making it "iconic."

Raya glanced up briefly.

“You’re still working on the festival doc?”

Tessa didn’t look away from the screen.

“Mm-hmm. Just shaping the narrative.”

“Don’t overthink it. You’ll burn out before opening night.”

“Noted,” Tessa replied, voice breezy. “Just… getting it right.”

Raya shrugged and went back to her journal, resting it against her knees as she started to write.

“Raya’s Journal”

12:47 AM

I should be asleep.

My brain, however, had other plans. Again.

Today was… a lot. The club room was a war zone of paper cuts, frayed nerves, and caffeine-fueled chaos—but somehow, it felt good. Like we’re close. Like something real is finally about to take shape.

And then came Langston.

That man has the emotional range of a stone and the aura of a disappointed thesis advisor from the underworld. But today, he smiled. At us. At Ryan.

Of course Ryan stepped up. Calm, focused, flawless delivery. Not even a blink when Eli said “safety is sexy” with zero shame.

I watched him walk the professor through every detail like he was presenting to a boardroom of CEOs. Like this whole festival was already built in his head and we just hadn’t caught up yet.

Then Hana chimed in—bright as always—cheering him on like it was a TED Talk. I should’ve smiled. I didn’t.

It’s not jealousy. It’s not.

I just… I know how much he’s been doing. I’ve seen it. The lists, the sketches, the way he doesn’t just organize—he builds. Quietly. Like he doesn’t need anyone to notice but he still does it right.

I said he’s the captain.

He asked if I meant it.

I said the ship hasn’t sunk yet.

Typical.

I can’t just say what I mean. That he’s steady when everything else is overwhelming. That I trust him. That maybe… I look for him more than I mean to.

But saying things out loud gives them weight.

And I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet.

Tomorrow’s another prep day. More emails. More chaos. More Ryan, probably being effortlessly capable while I pretend not to watch.

This is fine.

I’m fine.

I’m just… writing at 12:58 AM about someone who isn’t even technically my friend.

God, what even is this?

ℛ. ✧

Across the room, Tessa’s typing paused.

She re-read something on her screen, lips curling into a secret smile, then leaned in again—fingers dancing faster now, like the words were coming on their own.

The cursor blinked beneath a line in bold:

"The sunshine and the captain—one ruled by instinct, the other by structure. Caught in the chaos they both created. Neither of them noticed the third one watching... pulling the strings from the shadows."

She scrolled up, skimming through the paragraphs she'd already crafted:

The story wasn’t about a festival—not really. It was about the way the sunshine shone brighter when the captain was near. The way he stood steady in every storm, the quiet gravity holding things together. The way she tried not to need that steadiness. Tried not to notice how safe he made the chaos feel. And in the background, the girl with honeyed words and summer-light smiles watched, unnoticed. Sweet on the surface. Sweet enough to slip past their guard. Waiting for her chapter to begin.

Tessa’s eyes flicked over her shoulder.

Raya was still curled up in bed, scribbling in her journal, eyebrows furrowed in thought—lost in a world of her own.

Tessa turned back to the screen.

And hit save.