It was officially too early for charm, but Ryan Hale showed up anyway—with coffee.

Emily blinked at him through her half-open apartment door, hair wild, wearing an oversized hoodie that said “NOT A MORNING PERSON” in aggressive font. “You’re either brave or lost.”

“Neither,” he said, holding up two cups. “Peace offering. I’m testing a new hypothesis.”

“About caffeine and forgiveness?”

“Exactly.”

She stepped aside to let him in. “You realize you could’ve texted, right?”

“I tried. You replied with a skull emoji.”

“That’s my polite way of saying ‘try later.’”

“Noted.”

He set the coffees on her cluttered table. Her apartment was small, chaotic, and exactly what he expected—plants that were both alive and dead, post-it notes on the fridge that said things like *buy milk* and *stop falling for unavailable men.* He pretended not to notice the last one.

“Nice place,” he said.

“It’s a crime scene with rent control.”

They sat by the window, watching the city wake up in slow motion. Horns, sirens, a dog in a sweater. Emily yawned. “So, what’s your excuse for being awake this early?”

“Presentation at nine.”

“And yet you stopped here first.”

He shrugged. “I needed better inspiration than PowerPoint.”

She smirked. “I’m honored to be your motivational disaster.”

“Top-tier disaster, actually.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, here we are.”

Later that morning, Ryan was halfway through his presentation at work when his phone buzzed. He ignored it until the slide on “Sustainability in Lighting Design” ended. Then he peeked.

**Emily:** “You left your umbrella here. Either you forgot it or you’re planning another excuse to see me.”

He smiled, typing back:  

**Ryan:** “Column A, column B.”  

**Emily:** “Smooth.”  

**Ryan:** “Statistically proven to work.”  

**Emily:** “On who?”  

**Ryan:** “Currently running tests.”

Alex, his coworker, leaned over. “Are you sexting an Excel sheet?”

“Go away, Alex.”

That weekend, Emily convinced Ryan to come to her friend’s birthday party in Brooklyn—a backyard affair with too many fairy lights and not enough sober people. He showed up on time, which was his first mistake.

Jess met him at the gate. “You must be the famous engineer.”

“Infamous, technically.”

“Cute *and* self-aware. I like you already. Come in before she freaks out.”

Emily appeared five minutes later, holding two beers, visibly surprised. “You actually came.”

“You invited me.”

“Yeah, but people say that all the time. It’s like ‘we should grab coffee sometime.’ Nobody actually means it.”

“I’m statistically abnormal.”

She laughed, handing him a bottle. “Welcome to the jungle.”

Two hours later, Ryan had met approximately fifteen of Emily’s friends, each more chaotic than the last. There was Luna, the amateur astrologer who told him his “Saturn energy” was dangerously sexy; Max, the DJ who asked if he could use Ryan’s voice for a remix; and a small dog named Pancake who wouldn’t leave his lap.

Emily watched from across the yard, amused. “You’re handling the chaos well.”

“I’m adapting,” he said. “I’ve upgraded from whiskey to survival mode.”

“You fit in better than I thought.”

“That’s terrifying,” he said, smiling.

Then, midway through a group photo, someone pushed Emily, she stumbled, and Ryan caught her just before she hit the table. Their faces ended up too close—again. She could smell his cologne, something clean with a hint of danger. He blinked, steady but definitely flustered.

“Gravity,” he murmured, “still undefeated.”

She whispered back, “Maybe it’s working for us.”

The next day, Ryan invited her to a baseball game. “To balance the social trauma,” he said.  

Emily wore a borrowed Yankees cap and bought cotton candy before finding their seats. “I haven’t been to a game since high school,” she said. “Do they still sell pretzels the size of regret?”

“Yes, and they’re still $14.”

“Ah, inflation—the true American pastime.”

They watched as the players ran, the crowd roared, and the wave went around like synchronized chaos. Emily got too into it, yelling at random moments. At one point, she spilled soda on herself, again. Ryan offered napkins, smiling. “Tradition continues.”

“Shut up.”

“Just saying, the universe has a sense of humor.”

“Yeah, and it’s messy.”

By the seventh inning, they were laughing nonstop, arguing about whether hot dogs counted as sandwiches. Ryan insisted on logic; Emily declared it was “a lifestyle.” When the game ended, neither wanted to leave.

Walking back to the subway, she said, “You’re surprisingly fun outside of spreadsheets.”

“You’re surprisingly patient with someone who corrects grammar on receipts.”

“Wait—you do that?”

“Not recently,” he said. “Progress.”

Days turned into a rhythm—texts, calls, small disasters. Ryan cooked dinner one night and almost burned his kitchen. Emily helped by ordering pizza. She showed up at his office with coffee “to test if engineers melt under sunlight.” He dragged her to a farmers’ market where she accidentally started a chili pepper contest and won by cheating.

Jess called it “flirting in sitcom format.” Emily called it “whatever this is.”

But everyone else saw it for what it was—something real disguised as casual.

One Friday evening, after another long week, Ryan texted:  

**Ryan:** “Come to the rooftop. I have a surprise.”  

Emily arrived twenty minutes later, wind in her hair, suspicion in her eyes. “If this is another lighting experiment—”  

“Not this time.”  

He flipped a switch. Strings of warm bulbs lit up around the rooftop, framing the skyline. A quiet song played from a small speaker. “I wanted to prove I could make chaos look good.”  

Emily’s breath caught. “You made this?”  

“Engineers can be romantic. It’s in the fine print.”  

She looked at him for a long moment. “You’re something else, Hale.”  

He grinned. “That’s the hypothesis.”  

They stood there, city lights flickering around them, both realizing that somewhere along the way, their rhythm had stopped being ridiculous—it had become theirs.  

And for once, neither of them wanted to fix it.