Chapter 1: A Meet Not Cute

1st December

Keith

I brush past the couple of idiots who think it’s a genius idea to exchange their life stories at the door of a busy coffee place. With an annoyed shake of my head, I push in, inhaling the warm smell of coffee and gingerbread, ever-present since Halloween but growing stronger with each day that brings us closer to Christmas.

Once inside, I go wait in line and scowl at the chatty guys from a safe distance, but they don’t get the hint; no, they gossip away, ignoring my displeasure and anyone else who tries to step inside for their caffeine fix. Well, not my problem anymore. Not until I need to leave.

Which should be… I glance at my watch. Shit, soon. Dammit, I’m jittery already, and that’s before coffee. Maybe I should skip it to ensure I won’t screw up today? But getting a cup of coffee is my ritual, and rituals soothe me. Bad enough that I had to switch coffee places, but this one had great reviews, and unlike my previous haunt, it’s on the way to my new work. Work! The word zaps through my spine, and, yes, here come the jitters again, but it’s too late to change my mind because it’s my turn to order. Hurray for being jumpy during my very first stab at dealing with a bunch of teenagers. What could go wrong? 

The barista, a young girl with a ponytail and tortured expression, drums her finger on the counter, bringing me back to reality.

“Medium flat white, please.” I avoid her stare as I pay and plop down into a chair to wait for my order. Normally, I wouldn’t mind standing, but I crammed my messenger bag full of art books this morning, so my shoulder is fucking killing me, and I welcome the opportunity to give it some relief, even for a couple of minutes. 

Yes, the school should provide all the necessary materials, but I’m still anxious about missing something. Out there somewhere, a fourteen-year-old me is laughing at me for being this nervous about a teaching job, and an eighteen-year-old me scoffing with disdain about the same thing, but I’d tell them both—especially the eighteen-year-old pretentious dickwad—that building a career as an artist is damn near impossible, and having a steady income goes a long way toward paying rent. If things work out, I could even afford to move out of my ratty studio apartment. 

The barista calls out a name. Still on auto-pilot, I sling the bag back over my shoulder, pick up my cup of coffee and turn around to head outside when I collide with a wall. A solid, warm wall of muscle that chuckles at our accident. Weird. Since when can walls laugh?

“I think you have my order,” the wall says in a voice that doesn’t fit the gym-rat physique. It’s velvety soft, rumbly with amusement, and oozing kindness. Afraid to raise my eyes and face the honey-voiced bodybuilder, I stare at his chest like a creep. A gorgeous chest, too, even under a layer of a mustard-yellow sweater (a color which should be outlawed on clothes). Michelangelo would weep to have this guy model for him.

“Sorry, must’ve grabbed it by accident. My head’s a mess today because —”

Rrrrrip.

That’s the precise moment my abused shoulder bag calls it quits and, much like every romantic heroine, falls apart at the seams. A collection of heavy books tumbles right onto the foot of the unfortunate guy whose coffee I stole.

“Ouch,” he says, but doesn’t even budge. Is he superhuman?

“Shit, oh, fuck, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what was I thinking, packing so many books in there—it was on its last leg, but I couldn’t afford a new one—but you don’t care, and now I stole your coffee and maimed you.”

“Hey. Relax. Everything will be fine.” 

Said in that chocolaty timbre, I almost believe that and finally gather the courage to glance up. Fuck me over with a brush. I shouldn’t have done that. My eyes connect with the stranger’s soft, grey gaze and hold, unable to twitch even a millimeter away. Not even if my life and my Artstation portfolio depended on it. This person, this random man I injured and robbed, looks like a freaking action hero. His face is sharp, with a strong jaw and long, straight nose. Overlong lashes shadow his stormy eyes, softening the overall severe effect, and the silver-grey hair falling into his forehead lends him an air of dignity.

Holy cupcakes, I’ve just met my dream guy, and I’m off to a terrible impression, so I do what any reasonable person would do: I shove the cup at him while simultaneously trying to bend down and release his foot, but unsurprisingly, the only thing I succeed at is spilling the liquid contents all over him. Thank everything that’s holy that the coffee cooled off during the time I spent gaping at him, but its staining qualities remain strong, so now there’s a growing brown mark on his sweater, turning the ugly thing even uglier. Yellow and brown are a vile combination. 

“I am so sorry. I’m not usually such a klutz, I swear. Okay, that’s a lie, but I really am very sorry.” 

Flames lick over my cheeks, turning my whole face into a human tomato. Another way of making a great first impression: mimicking your favorite vegetable. Tune in for more flirting tips with Keith.

“A flat white for Keith?” the barista calls. 

I finally collect all the books and arrange them in my arms in a semi-secure way that should prevent further accidents.

“You take it,” I say to the handsome stranger. “No way I can carry it now, anyway. And again, so sorry. Do you want my number so I can reimburse you for the dry cleaner?” 

“I don’t need a dry cleaner, but I’d —”

“Great! I’ve gotta run, I’m so behind, sorry, lovely meeting you!”

Did I really just say that? Can the ground open and swallow me whole? Or maybe a bolt of lightning could strike the place where I’m standing and burn me to cinders. Or an electromagnetic pulse could go off, wiping everyone’s memories. I’m not picky as long as I get to keep the tatters of my dignity. 

Not waiting for my wishes to come true, I turn on my heel and bolt for my car, where I throw the books in the trunk and slide behind the wheel, but I don’t drive away right this minute, even though it’d be reasonable. Unfortunately, reason left the building like five embarrassing things ago, so I use the moment to bang my head against the wheel, hoping the pain takes away the sting of shame. To no one’s surprise, it doesn’t help one lick. Also, now my head hurts. What a fucking excellent start to a day I was actually looking forward to.

My phone chimes from my pocket. I fish it out to find that Lance has sent a new message to our chat group.

Lance: How’s the new job treating you, Mullet?

Keith: Not there yet. Had a little accident while getting coffee.

Hunk: Did you break something? Should we call an ambulance?

Keith: You break your leg one time!

Lance: And dislocate your shoulder.

Hunk: And give yourself a concussion.

Lance: On different occasions.

Keith: Sometimes I wonder why I’m friends with you.

Lance: You love us.

Hunk: Plus, you’d already be dead five times without us calling the ambulance for you. Speaking of which, are you all right? I have the number loaded up.

Keith: I’m fine. Only bruised my pride.

Lance: You still have that? I thought it died after you asked your dean’s wife when she was due.

Hunk: What’s wrong with that? 

Lance: She wasn’t pregnant.

Hunk: Ouch. Yeah, that’ll do it.

Keith: I bumped into the most gorgeous guy.

Hunk: And that’s a problem? You really had me worried.

Lance: Wait for it.

Keith: And I stole his coffee.

Lance: And?

Keith: Dropped a ton of books on his foot.

Lance: And?

Keith: Spilled the stolen coffee all over him.

Lance: And?

Keith: Fled like a little bitch with my tail between my legs.

Lance: There’s my boy. Feeling better now that you shared your misery?

Keith: That only helps when your so-called friends sympathize instead of mocking you. 

Hunk: Nah, pretty sure it’s the act of sharing that diminishes the pain, not the response.

Keith: Nope, doesn’t work. I need compassion.

Hunk: Aw, our poor wittle baby.

Keith: Jerk.

Lance: Look at it this way, Mullet. You having a dose of bad luck was inevitable. Sun is warm, rain is wet, Hunk’s cookies are the best in the universe, I’m awesome, and you’re an accident-prone klutz who only survived till adulthood thanks to the coordinated efforts of your friends. So you embarrassed yourself in front of a stranger. Better than making a crummy impression on your new colleagues. Consider it pre-gaming, but for awkwardness. 

Keith: I need new friends.

Hunk: Let us know when you find them so we can warn them.

Keith: Ha ha. I’m in stitches.

Lance: Just like the time when you attempted to carve the turkey and cut your palm in half.

Keith: You made such a fuss about that, but it was barely a nick.

Hunk: You ended up with fourteen stitches, babe, and it took half a year for all the nerves to regrow. Drive slowly, and let us know when you arrive at school.

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Keith: You’re not my real mom, Hunk. 

Hunk: No. Keeping an eye on you is not a job for one fragile woman. It takes a village. Now chop chop, so you’re not late for your first school day.

Lance: I’d wish you to break a leg, but with you, that’s tempting fate, so… good luck. We’re rooting for you. Don’t stab yourself in the eye with a pencil. 

A huge grin splits my face as I pocket my phone. My friends often act like the morons they are, and they can aggravate the daylights out of me, but they’re also the best at cheering me up. So I made an idiot out of myself. Big deal. That’ll happen quite a few times yet, and I’ll meet other hot guys that can witness it. Some of them might even be willing to deal with my messy ass.

Lousy mood dispelled, I drive away and arrive at the school on time. It looks (and smells) like every other high school, a potent mix of pheromones, crushed dreams, and detergent. I navigate the hallways, making my way to the principal’s office, where I’m supposed to meet with my new employer, Allura Starlight. We only talked on the phone, and based on the job, I’d expect a strict woman in her forties or fifties, with hair in a bun and a no-nonsense attitude about jokes, dancing, or fun. Based on her name, I’d expect a porn star. Guess I’ll see in a minute.

I knock on the door, and a woman who I assume is Allura comes out. She’s wearing a pink blouse, white pants, and a dazzling smile. Wow. The only thing I got right is the complicated bun. Despite her obvious beauty, she radiates competence.

“Our new art teacher?” she asks. “I’m Allura.”

“Yes. I’m me. Keith. Sorry. Yes, I’m the new art teacher, Keith Kogane.”

“Nice to meet you, Keith. I hope you’ll enjoy working here.” Her warm smile settles my nerves. “We discussed most of the details over the phone, so today we’re going to stop by your office, then I’ll show you around a bit and circle back to deal with the contract and some formalities. Your first class starts at eleven, which gives us plenty of time. Sound good?” 

“Perfect,” I say. 

“Okay, let’s be on our way.” She locks the door behind her and motions for me to follow her.

“I know that starting in the middle of the year is not ideal, but our previous art teacher had to stay on bed rest because of a risky pregnancy.”

“Sorry to hear that.” 

“She’s doing fine, but we needed a new teacher ASAP. That’s why we were in such a rush to fill that position. I was very impressed with your portfolio. It’s surprising to see an art history major with practical skills.”

“I’ve always loved art, and I figured studying history would give me a deeper understanding of it. What I didn’t consider was that I’d also have to pay bills and that ‘starving artist’ is not just a saying. More of an accurate description.” 

“So teaching was your last resort?” Allura quirks an eyebrow at me.

“Yeah, um, no, not technically —”

“Don’t worry, I’m just teasing you, Keith—is it okay if I call you Keith? We’re not big on formalities here. Since we’re a small school, we’re a pretty tight-knit group, but we’re proud of the quality of education we provide.” 

“Keith’s fine.”

“Excellent. I have a feeling you’ll fit right in.” Another warm smile. If I weren’t batting for the other team, I’d be half in love with her already.

“Here’s your office.” She knocks, but there’s no answer, and the doorknob doesn’t give way when she pushes it. “Odd. Shiro’s usually one of the first here. Guess he’s running late today. No matter.” 

She takes out a keyring and fiddles with it until she finds the correct one.

“And Shiro would be?”

“Our math and physics teacher. You’ll share the office with him.” 

“A bit of an odd combination, math and arts, isn’t it?” Do I sound like I’m criticizing? I don’t want to sound like I’m criticizing. Not during the first hour at my new job, but thankfully, Allura only waves her hand.

“Believe me, I know. I’m aware you artsy folk like to stick together, but this is the set-up I inherited, and Shiro’s the only one with an office to himself right now. But don’t worry, he’s a sweetheart. I’m sure you’ll get along great.”

He sounds too good to be true, but Allura underestimates the depth of my awkwardness and social anxiety. 

“Welcome to your new home.” She throws the door open, and we step inside. As school offices go, it’s pretty welcoming. Large windows overlook a park and provide a lot of light in case I want to paint. Striking photos line every wall—each one displaying a different space phenomenon. The vibrant colors of swirling nebulas, exploding stars, and black holes immediately catch my eye. Not something I’d expect from a stuffy math professor.

Allura notices me eyeing the pictures. “Shiro’s a bit of a space geek—he’s the leader of our astronomy club.” 

As if her words conjured him, the man in question barges in. 

“Sorry I’m late. Ran into a bit of an accident and had to double back to get a change of clothes. What’s going on here?” 

When my eyes snag on silver hair, grey eyes, and a figure that would make Discobolus weep at his inadequacy, I realize the universe has decided to screw me over today. 

Because my new colleague and office buddy is no one else than the hot stranger from the coffee place. Well, this is going to be interesting. And by interesting, I mean mortifying. What are the chances I could slink away, hide under a stone, and stay there until the universe implodes?

“I was just showing Keith his new office. Keith, this is Shiro. Shiro, this is Keith, our new art teacher.” 

Shiro extends his hand toward me. Head swimming, I shake it, and when our fingers touch, electricity prickles at my skin. Our gazes lock. Once again, I’m spellbound, unable to move away. Or unwilling? It doesn’t matter. All I know is that I want to drown in those eyes. I want to run my fingers through the silver hair to test if it’s as soft as it looks. I want to kiss that stern mouth and draw soft moans from it.

“We’ve met,” Shiro says to Allura, then turns to me. “Good to know you have a respectable job apart from being a coffee thief.” 

The corners of the mouth I’ve been gawping at lift. I take a beat too long to respond, and he releases me, rubbing his neck. During our meeting at the coffee place, I didn’t even notice the thin red scar stretching across his cheeks and nose. Curious as I am about the story behind it, I’d like to explore it closer first. With my tongue, if possible.  

“Um. Yeah.” 

Two whole grunts. That’ll fix what Shiro must think of me—that I’m a complete and utter moron. 

Allura’s phone beeps, and she takes it out, scowling at the display as if it offended her ancestors. 

“Actually, now that you’re here, Shiro, could you show Keith around? I need to deal with Lotor’s parents. They can’t just buy good grades, for crying out loud.” 

“No problem, Allura. I can handle it.” 

“Thanks. Keith, once you’re done, stop by my office to sign the contract.”

Allura departs in a hurry, leaving me alone with Shiro. The room that seemed so spacious and airy only moments ago now attempts to suffocate me. Wait. Can a room suffocate someone? No, that would be the lack of air in the room? But Shiro seems to be breathing just fine, so maybe it’s my throat that’s broken? 

“So, the books make more sense now,” Shiro says after several beats of silence.

“I left them in my car.” 

“Does that mean my foot is safe?” a smile teases his lips again. Damn, he smiles a lot, and each of those smiles turns him from a stranger into someone I’d love to know better.

“Yeah, sorry about that. Your foot. And your coffee. And your clothes.”

“I wanted to tell you before you ran away not to worry about them. I never liked that sweater, anyway. Yellow isn’t my color.” 

“That might be because humans have trouble with it. Our eyes don’t have enough cones to perceive it properly, so we don’t differentiate the various shades of yellow or the contrast between them. We do much better with blue.” My breath runs out, which forces me to stop talking. Thank goodness. But then I inhale and run my stupid mouth again.

“Or purple. Which looks great on you, so I might’ve done you a favor. I tend to continue until somebody shushes me, so please, stop me before I humiliate myself even more.” 

Shiro’s eyes grow large, giving me the look full of disbelief I get from most people who spend time with me, but then he reacts in a way I rarely experience: he bursts out laughing. 

“But I want to learn more about color theory. Do you know color has a close relationship to light wavelength? Which is physics, and that’s kind of my specialty.” He waggles his eyebrows at me.

“I know that, yeah.” 

“See, we have something in common.”

“More like our subjects do.”

“Well, I’m sure we can find other things we share.” 

I doubt Shiro shares my need to discover how his lips taste, but I nod politely, not trusting myself to speak.

“First, the tour. Follow and prepare yourself to be amazed.” 

He steps into the hallway with me on his heels.

So much for never meeting him again, but at least he’s already familiar with my general level of clumsiness.

The first crappy impression is out of the way, and I can’t top that, can I?

Please, universe, don’t let me embarrass myself further.

We can call it a Christmas miracle.

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