Level One and the Static Shock of Doom

He was sitting in a corner booth, wearing his signature black leather jacket, looking like a mafia enforcer on his lunch break. There was a solid three-foot radius of empty space around his table because nobody dared to sit too close.

I checked my phone. 2:58 PM. I took a deep breath, smoothed down the front of my favorite yellow sweater (which I had absolutely not spent forty-five minutes choosing), and marched over.

I slid into the booth across from him. "I'm not late."

Leo didn't look up immediately. He was carefully aligning two ceramic mugs on the table so their handles were perfectly parallel. "Punctuality is a good trait for an author," he rumbled. He pushed the mug on the right toward me. "Caramel macchiato. Extra espresso shot."

I blinked, wrapping my hands around the warm mug. "How did you know my order?"

Leo finally met my eyes, his expression completely blank. "Author's note. Chapter 42. You complained that the campus barista forgot your extra shot and it ruined your writing flow for the kissing scene in the rain."

A flush crept up my neck. Right. SoftKitten99 knew everything about me. "Uh, thanks. For the coffee. And for, you know, paying attention."

"I am a dedicated reader," he said simply. He pulled his phone from his pocket and tapped the screen. "Are you ready to begin the exercise? I have set a timer for exactly sixty seconds."

"Wait, right now?" I squeaked, nearly choking on my macchiato. "Just like that? Shouldn't we, I don't know, talk about the weather first? Build up the mood?"

Leo frowned, a terrifying expression that probably made underclassmen cry. "Small talk is an inefficient use of our designated research time. The syllabus clearly stated: unbroken eye contact, followed by the accidental hand-brush over the sugar packets. The packets are in the center. Prepare yourself."

He hit the start button on his phone and set it face down on the table.

"Begin," he commanded softly.

I swallowed hard and forced myself to look at him. Really look at him. Usually, people avoided making eye contact with the Ice King out of self-preservation. But staring at him now, I realized his eyes weren't just a cold, flat black. They were a very dark, rich brown, like the espresso I was drinking. And he had stupidly long eyelashes.

Ten seconds.

 I shifted in my seat. This was ridiculous. We were just staring at each other like two cats about to fight over territory.

Twenty seconds.

Forty seconds.

The silence between us stretched, becoming heavy and strange. The background noise of the coffee shop—the grinding beans, the chatter—faded away. My breath hitched. Oh no. The biology textbook was right. My heart rate was actually elevating. My palms were sweating. This is just research, I chanted in my head. Research for the readers.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The alarm shattered the spell. I jumped, my knee banging against the underside of the table.

"Time," Leo announced, his voice slightly hoarse. He cleared his throat and looked pointedly at the small ceramic bowl of sugar packets between us. "Now. The catalyst."

"Right. The catalyst," I echoed.

I reached my hand out slowly, aiming for a pink sweetener packet. At the exact same moment, Leo’s large, calloused hand reached out from the opposite side.

Our fingers collided.

ZAP!

A literal spark of static electricity snapped between our fingertips. It was loud enough that the girl at the next table looked over.

"Ouch!" I yanked my hand back, cradling my fingers against my chest.

Leo recoiled just as fast, his eyes wide with genuine shock. He stared at his hand, then at me, then back at his hand, as if he had just been bitten by a venomous snake.

For a second, the Ice King looked completely, wonderfully flustered. Then, with robotic stiffness, he reached into his jacket, pulled out his leather notebook, and clicked his fountain pen.

"Variables to note," Leo muttered, writing furiously. "Static discharge. Accelerated heart rate. Mild physical pain. Note to author: include electrostatic shock as a metaphor for sudden romantic tension."

I stared at him, my finger still tingling from the shock, and my heart pounding a ridiculous rhythm against my ribs.

I had wanted to cure my writer's block. But as I watched the campus terror meticulously grade our fake date, I realized I had a much bigger problem.

Writing a romance was one thing. Not falling in love with my scary, incredibly weird research partner was going to be a completely different story.