Sam woke up early, far too early, the adrenaline already singing through his bones. Sunlight filtered in through the blinds like gold dust, and for a moment, he just lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this was really it—the last day of the seven they never expected to share.
He sat up slowly. His dorm room was unusually tidy. Their project, that once-broken mess of wires and frames, now stood neatly on the desk by the window, polished and ready. They had done it. Somehow.
His phone buzzed.
Hayden:
> You up?
I brought coffee.
And I might be panicking.
Sam grinned. He texted back quickly:
Sam:
> Meet me at the lab. I'll panic with you.
---
By noon, the university's main hall was buzzing. Banners hung from every beam. Showcases clattered to life across long rows of tables. Professors, students, and visiting judges moved from one display to the next, clipboards in hand.
Sam adjusted the final screw on their project—a responsive installation that lit up and shifted form with sound—and looked up just as Hayden arrived.
"Hey," Hayden said, holding out an iced Americano and a croissant like a peace offering. "I think my heart is beating in binary code."
Sam snorted. "That's not even—okay, just breathe."
They stood together behind their booth, both in crisp white shirts and black pants, the same as everyone else. And yet… somehow not the same.
"Do you remember," Hayden asked under his breath, "how much we hated each other on Monday?"
Sam hummed. "Not really."
Before Hayden could answer, the head judge appeared in front of them. "You're up."
---
Their demo was a blur. Sam explained the technical side while Hayden talked about the collaboration—how failure had become function, how chaos had become something beautiful. They moved like two halves of a whole, their nerves turning to energy, to charm, to spark.
When it was over, there was applause. Real, loud, genuine applause.
And as they stepped off the stage, back into the wings, Sam leaned close and whispered, "We survived."
Hayden grinned. "You say that like we're done."
Sam blinked. "Aren't we?"
But Hayden was already lacing their fingers together, the faintest blush on his cheeks.
"Not even close."
The hall looked different at night.
By the time the sun began to dip below the university rooftops, the overhead lights had dimmed to a gentle amber. String lights crisscrossed the rafters, twinkling like stars, and someone had dragged in speakers to play a mellow, pulsing playlist that turned the entire hall into a quiet party. Half the booths had been dismantled. The other half were surrounded by clusters of friends, mentors, and curious students still milling about, sipping juice from paper cups.
Sam stood off to the side, watching a group of freshmen play with one of the interactive displays, when Hayden appeared next to him.
"You're hiding," Hayden said, nudging him gently.
Sam didn't deny it. "I don't like being congratulated. It's weird."
"Sam," Hayden said seriously, "we got third place in a university-wide showcase after building the thing out of sadness and stress granola bars. You're allowed to let people cheer for you."
Sam rolled his eyes—but he was smiling.
Hayden reached into his jacket pocket and pulled something out. "By the way," he added, almost shyly, "I… made this. For you."
It was a pin. Handmade, janky, kind of terrible. A little metal rectangle painted blue with a crooked white lightning bolt on it.
Sam stared at it, then looked up. "Is this because I got electrocuted on Tuesday?"
Hayden shrugged. "And because you still came back the next day. I thought that was pretty brave."
Sam held the pin like it was glass. "You are the weirdest romantic I've ever met."
"High praise."
He took the pin and carefully stuck it through the breast pocket of his shirt. It hung lopsided. Perfect.
---
Later, when most of the crowd had filtered out and the music had turned even slower, Sam and Hayden sat on the edge of the stage. Their project had been carefully packed up and taken away. The spotlight that once shone down on them now glowed faintly overhead, casting their shadows long across the floor.
"Do you think," Sam murmured, resting his chin on his knees, "that it would've been better if we hadn't crashed into each other on Monday?"
Hayden didn't answer right away. Instead, he tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling, at the strings of lights overhead that looked like constellations.
"No," he said finally. "Because we might've gotten here alone. But it wouldn't have been this."
Sam glanced over.
Hayden was already looking at him.
There was a long silence—the kind that didn't need filling.
Then Hayden reached out, slow and sure, and linked their pinkies together.
"Hey," he said. "Want to accidentally ruin something else together sometime?"
Sam laughed. "Only if we get to fix it afterward."
"Deal."
The Monday morning after the showcase dawned quiet and gray. No stage lights, no buzzing halls. Just the usual thrum of the campus waking up—bikes whirring past, coffee cups clutched like lifelines, lectures beginning with the scratch of dry markers on whiteboards.
Sam sat in his usual spot in the campus café, tucked into a corner by the window with his laptop open and untouched. The world outside blurred slightly with the drizzle, and he watched students float by like ghosts in hoodies and umbrellas.
He hadn't seen Hayden since Saturday night.
Not because of anything dramatic. Just—finals. Deadlines. Life rushing in the second the curtain dropped. Hayden had vanished into architecture reviews; Sam had buried himself in late-night lab hours and quietly pretending he wasn't listening for footsteps that never came.
He stirred his coffee. Stared at the pin still fastened to his jacket.
A little blue lightning bolt. Crooked and kind.
"You're wearing it."
The voice came from behind him—familiar, careful, and real enough to make Sam blink up sharply.
Hayden stood there, hair damp from the rain, bag slung over one shoulder. His shirt was wrinkled and he looked tired, but his smile—small, just on one side—was unmistakable.
Sam blinked. "Hi."
Hayden shifted, then pointed at the empty seat. "Can I—?"
"Yeah," Sam said quickly, clearing his throat. "Yeah, sit."
They sat. A beat passed. Then two.
"I wasn't avoiding you," Hayden said finally, looking not at Sam but at the table.
"I know," Sam said. "I mean. I hoped."
"I wanted to text you like, ten times. But I didn't want to—ruin the moment, you know? The one we ended on. It felt too good. I didn't know how to top it."
Sam exhaled slowly. "You didn't have to top it. Just… show up."
Hayden looked up then, and their eyes locked—just like on stage, under the spotlight, only now in the dull hum of a Monday morning with bad weather and cold coffee.
And then Sam smiled. Small, but honest.
"I missed you," he said.
Hayden's hand moved across the table, tentative. His fingers brushed Sam's. "Yeah. Me too."
A pause.
"So," Hayden said, voice lighter, hopeful, "do you want to ruin something again this week?"
Sam laughed. "No. But I wouldn't mind fixing breakfast. With you."
Hayden beamed, wide and blinding.
"Deal."
And just like that, in a café wrapped in rain and routine, they began again.
Outside the café, the rain began to lift. The clouds thinned like breath on glass, and sunlight—gentle, unsure—started to slip through. Inside, two boys leaned close over lukewarm coffee, still figuring out how to talk, how to hold hands without trembling, how to start something without knowing the ending.
And somewhere in the quiet hum of their new rhythm—amid laughter and shared bagels and overstuffed tote bags—they didn't know yet that in exactly one year, they'd be standing in the kitchen of a tiny off-campus apartment, arguing over whether a bookshelf could also be a spice rack.
But for now?
For now, Sam smiled across the table, Hayden smiled back, and the day went on.
Together.