The November air bit at her fingers as she sat on the terrace floor, knees pulled to her chest, hoodie bunched up around her face. The sky stretched wide and cold above her, glittering with a thousand indifferent stars. Her fingers itched for distraction, so she dug into a half-empty packet of bourbon biscuits beside her, chewing absently as her eyes traced constellations she used to find comfort in.
But tonight, the sky felt like a test she hadn't studied for. One that mocked her, even as she searched for solace in it. Was that Sirius or Capella? It flickered too brightly, too low on the horizon. Logic said one thing. Instinct, another. Her jaw clenched.
"It's Procyon," a voice cut through the night air. "And you're about four degrees off. Bet you can't even spot Alnitak."
She froze. Not just because he was right. But because who the hell just interrupted her stargazing with a correction? And worse—he pronounced Alnitak properly.
Her head whipped to the left. The neighboring terrace, usually dark and deserted, now had a figure leaning lazily against the railing. A telescope stood beside him, gleaming faintly under the moonlight. He wore a jet black hoodie, sleeves pushed up, revealing a silver ring glinting on his index finger. His hair was dark, messy in a way that looked unfairly intentional, and the breeze toyed with it like it had a favorite.
He wasn't looking at her. His eye was still to the telescope, his hand adjusting a knob like this wasn't his first night out here. Like this wasn't a first meeting at all—but a continuation she hadn't been aware of.
"Excuse me?" she said, voice sharp.
He finally looked up.
And smirked.
"You're off by a whole quadrant," he said. "If you're going to scream at the stars, at least know which one you're angry at."
Her blood boiled.
The audacity. The nerve. The absolute cosmic arrogance.
"You think you're funny?" she snapped.
He tilted his head, pretending to consider it. "Not really. Just accurate."
That was the start.
They argued for twelve minutes straight. About celestial coordinates, magnitude values, telescope brands, and whether it was ethical to use stargazing apps. He corrected her pronunciation of Betelgeuse. She threw her slipper across the terrace gap. He dodged it like it was choreographed, barely flinching.
"Try again, Star Girl," he said, voice like the night itself—cool, weightless, echoing.
She considered climbing over the parapet just to strangle him. But instead, she called him Telescope Boy with venom in every syllable.
He seemed amused. Not flustered, not defensive. Just entertained.
And worse—like he was waiting.