Adam Liu never noticed people tripping.
The UC campus was an obstacle course of late students, spilled lattes, and freshmen who didn't know how to ride scooters. He was usually the one everyone watched — on his Ducati, scholarship kids parting like the Red Sea, girls practicing their smile for when he rode past.
At 25, he had the kind of life people wrote think-pieces about. Richard Liu's only son. Business major final year . Trustee board intern. Jawline that made the campus lifestyle Instagram account crash twice. He dated girls who looked like they'd been filtered in real life and broke up with them before they could get clingy. He was untouchable. He liked it that way.
So when the kid in the oversized gray hoodie went down hard in front of the library steps, Adam should've kept riding.
He didn't.
The brakes on his Ducati squealed, sharp and ugly. The kid had a cascade of textbooks around him, one sliding to a stop near Adam's front tire. Organic Chemistry. Advanced Calculus. A yellow Post-it note fluttered out like a surrender flag:
Email Prof Kim – 3pm!! DON'T FORGET.
The kid scrambled up, all long limbs and panic. His hood fell back.
And Adam's world stalled.
He was beautiful in a way that made Adam's chest do something stupid. Sharp jaw, wide eyes still glassy from the fall, lips parted as he gasped for air. His black hair was a mess, sticking to his forehead with sweat. He looked like every K-drama lead Adam's exes made him watch during "chill nights," but real. Flushed. Human. Breathing.
"Shit—sorry—" the kid mumbled, not to Adam, but to the universe. To the concrete. To anyone but the guy on the $30k bike. He grabbed two books, left the third, and bolted toward the science building like he could outrun gravity.
Adam stared after him. He didn't even notice Vanessa from his Business Ethics class waving at him until she was right next to his bike, her manicured nails tapping his handlebar.
"Adam? Earth to Adam Liu?"
He blinked. His brain felt short-circuited. "Yeah?"
"You're gonna be late to Chen's class. Again." She tossed her hair. "You want a ride to—"
"No." It came out harder than he meant.
Vanessa's smile froze. Adam never said no. Adam said "later" or "busy" or "my dad."
He didn't care. For the first time in 25 years, Adam Liu had heard the word 'no' — not from a person, but from his own brain. Because every instinct he'd been taught to bury said follow him.
He didn't. Yet.
That night, in his penthouse two miles from campus, Adam found himself googling "UC scholarship students list." He told himself it was for the annual Liu Foundation networking mixer. His father would want a good mix of "hunger" and "gratitude" for the photo op.
It was a lie. He scrolled until 2am.
He still typed "boy in gray hoodie, library, Tuesday 8:47am" into his notes app.
Sam Cho had no idea the most untouchable man on campus now knew he had Organic Chemistry at 9am, Stats at 1pm, and worked the library circulation desk on Thursdays.
Adam had always dated girls. He was Richard Liu's son. He had a legacy, a trust fund, and a mother who already had a list of "appropriate" daughters picked out.
But he still dreamed of a pair of wide, startled eyes and a chipped tooth from where the kid had bit his lip on the way down.