Leather Jackets and Bad Timing (Flashback)

Leather Jackets and Bad Timing (Flashback)
The campus cafeteria was way too crowded for a Tuesday. The metal chairs were almost all taken, and the sound of the coffee bar’s blender blended with bursts of laughter from students who, for some reason, didn’t look the least bit stressed despite just walking out of a macroeconomics exam.
I was at a window table with Naomi and Joy. Naomi was stirring her terrible oat latte while ranting about the substitute professor in International Economics, and Joy was typing furiously on her phone, probably steering some political debate on Twitter.
“Professor McBride should retire and move to a villa in Tuscany. Seriously,” Naomi muttered, stabbing her salad like it was his head.
“If he went to Morocco, he’d just come back with the inspiration to write two more journals,” Joy said without looking up.
I laughed quietly, tucking my hair behind my ear. “I thought economics professors didn’t have souls. If he’s inspired, he’s a cyborg.”
We all laughed.
“I disagree,” a male voice chimed in. “But I’m sure Gretta could argue that in two pages, double-spaced, Times New Roman, with five international journal citations.”
I looked up. Because why wouldn’t Sebastian Devereux be standing right beside our table, leaning in with that infuriatingly casual expression. Oversized gray hoodie, messy light brown hair, backpack slung over one shoulder.
“Sebastian,” I sighed, like someone spotting a dirty plate at a dinner party. “What now?”
“What now?” He gave me a look. “Gretta, you’re the most ruthless TA in the Architecture Department. I’m losing hair because of your last assignment.”
Naomi snorted. “That assignment came from the professor, not Gretta.”
“Yeah, but she graded it. And you know her standards are as high as the old library roof. If your line is off by a single degree, you lose a whole letter grade.”
I crossed my arms. “That’s because bridges aren’t supposed to collapse just because you can’t read a scale. And your hair was destined to fall out.”
Joy leaned back, clearly entertained. “This is fun. When are you two going to kill each other with metal rulers?”
While Sebastian kept theatrically defending himself, my eyes wandered accidentally....to the far side of the cafeteria.
And there they were.
Sebastian’s friends, lounging like they were posing for the Ivy League edition of GQ.
Reagan Milano, in a black leather jacket over a slightly unzipped hoodie, revealing a thin gray T-shirt and a silver chain that had no business looking that good. Black hair, a little messy, like he didn’t bother with a comb but somehow made it look intentional. His face was all sharp lines and angles, like a Greek statue that knew exactly how good it looked.
Next to him, Rafael, clean-cut, sharp, but still in his worn sneakers. He was laughing at something, flashing those annoyingly perfect white teeth.
Delano, the quiet one, sat cross-legged with a medical journal in hand, sipping his coffee now and then.
And Reagan, of course, sat like he owned the building.
His gaze drifted lazily over the room.
And stopped on me.
I instantly looked away, like I’d just seen something gross.
Not because he was gross.
Because… he knew he was attractive. Knew people looked. Knew I looked. Sometimes.
“Don’t look at me like that, Sebastian,” I snapped, turning back to my debate partner. “I’m not changing your grade just because you’ve mastered messy hair.”
Sebastian smirked. “I’m not asking for a change. I know I’m good, Gretta. I just want validation.”
“I’m not your mother,” I shot back.
He grinned, spun on his heel, and called out to Reagan and the others, “She’s still mean, guys!”
Rafael laughed. Delano lifted an eyebrow. Reagan turned slowly, meeting my eyes with that unreadable stare.
Then he winked.
Jerk.
“I’m going to be sick,” I muttered, reaching for my water bottle. “Why does that man never wear a normal shirt?”
Naomi laughed. “Because that man isn’t normal. He’s Reagan Milano. Everything he touches turns hot.”
Joy chuckled. “You know he’s already got an internship offer from Rothschild, right? Next semester.”
I snorted. “Great. Hope he interns in hell.”
Naomi nudged my arm. “Do you hate him because he can make professors fall for him? Or because he refused to join the debate club when you were president?”
I rolled my eyes. “Because he’s annoying, narcissistic, and… way too aware of how attractive he is. The last thing the world needs is another man like that.”
:::
I was sitting on an old wooden bench facing a small fountain-fed pond, a hidden spot on the far west side of campus that nobody visited except the groundskeepers and the occasional human-avoider. People like me. Today, anyway.
Hoodie up, hunched over, I worked in my sketchbook.
The sky was a dull gray, leaves drifting lazily to the ground, and the crisp bite of fall stung my uncovered cheeks. I didn’t care. I was hiding. From Studio 3, from self-proclaimed design prodigies who thought their work belonged in a museum, and from Megan, the pick-me girl who’d decided we were best friends two weeks ago because I sat next to her once. One time. In Materials Technology.
My pencil moved across the paper. Messy hair, leather jacket, sharp features with a blank stare and a perfect jawline... my own interpretation of Edward Cullen. Darker. More real. And, if I was being honest, a little too close to someone I actually knew.
Crap.
I bit my lip, erased the jawline, and drew it again.
On my phone, one unread text from Ruan: ‘On my way. Fifteen minutes. Don’t eat the squirrels.’
I smirked, hugging my sketchbook tighter, trying to enjoy the last scraps of quiet.
But, the peace didn’t last.
Heavy footsteps crunched over gravel. I didn’t look up. I hoped it wasn’t—
“Is that... Edward?”
That voice. Low, calm, and dripping with lazy sarcasm. There was only one person in the world who sounded like that.
I closed my eyes. Counted to three.
Then opened them. “Reagan,” I said flatly. “It’s way too peaceful out here for your ego to ruin it.”
He gave a low laugh, and I heard the creak of his leather jacket as he sat on the far end of the bench. Too close. Too... Reagan.
“Relax,” he said, leaning back, arms folded. “I’m just passing through. But... are you seriously drawing a vampire?”
I kept my head down, pretending to focus. “Not a vampire. A character. There’s a difference.”
“A character from that movie that made you cry three times in the theater?”
I shot him a glare. “Who told you I cried?”
He shrugged, smirking. “Naomi. And Joy. And you. In your freshman English essay, paragraph three.”
Perfect.
“I don’t remember giving you permission to read my assignments,” I muttered.
He ignored that. “You know, I’ve always wondered... why are women like you obsessed with pale dead guys who avoid sex for three whole movies?”
I flipped the page in my sketchbook. “Maybe because the living guys around me are too annoying to be fantasy material.”
Reagan laughed again. This time, it was deeper. Warmer. And, annoyingly, it didn’t sound fake. “Touché.”
A few seconds passed. Wind rustled the leaves, and I could feel him looking at me. Quiet but obvious. I kept my eyes down, fingers tightening on the sketchbook.
“Why are you out here alone?” he finally asked.
I let out a slow breath. “Avoiding Megan. And everyone else who thinks I’m some kind of human assignment-revision machine.”
“Ah,” he said with a grin. “Gretta Domingo. Architecture goddess and public enemy number one in the department.”
I glanced at him. “And you? Why aren’t you sitting in the middle of the quad like campus royalty with your entourage?”
He smirked. “Rafael’s in the lab. Delano’s on a hospital shift. Sebastian... you know Sebastian. He can’t go five minutes without bothering some girl.”
I nodded. “And you?”
“Me?” He tilted his head back against the bench, eyes on the sky. “I was bored. Then I saw someone hiding out here like a fugitive, and I got curious.”
I didn’t answer.
“You know,” he said after a beat, “you’re cute when you’re mad.”
I groaned. “God, please send a thunderstorm right now.”
Reagan laughed, and I hated that it sounded like a song I hadn’t heard in years. Low. Warm. Unsettling.
Then he bumped his shoulder lightly against mine. “If you need an escape, I know a better spot than this park.”
“I don’t need an escape. I need people to stop bothering me,” I shot back.
That smile. That infuriating glint in his eyes. “I think I’m going to keep bothering you,”
Before I could answer, my phone buzzed.
Ruan: Out front. Get here now or I’m blasting Shakira.
I stood, tucking my pencil behind my ear and closing my sketchbook. “My guardian angel’s here.”
Reagan stood too, hands sliding into his jacket pockets. “See you around, Domingo.”