Maxim

The rain was pouring down so hard that Maxim, clutching his notes to his chest, almost flew through the glass doors of the university. And into you.

The collision was wet. He dropped his philosophy notes at his feet, and you dropped a nearly full glass of latte on your immaculate beige coat.

“I’m sorry, I…” he began, looking at the brown stain in horror.

You didn't cry out. Your gaze—cold, appraising—slid from his soaked sweatshirt to the ruined garment. You were 27 years old. Confidence was evident in every detail: from your perfect chestnut braid to your sharp heels, which didn't budge under the impact.

"Are you running off to pay off your debts?" Your voice was calm. You picked up his wet sheet of paper.

Maxim was 18 years old. He was burning with shame.

• I'll buy you a new coat...

The corners of the Highest lips twitched. "Leave it. I earn the money for it in an hour. And you've already wasted my next hour." With a precise movement, you pulled a business card from your bag and handed it to him.

You turned and walked away, your heels tapping a precise rhythm. Maxim clutched the business card in his hand. Ms. Harris. Managing Partner.

And he realized that he had fallen deeply in love with you and was not going to let you go.