{{user}} had never believed in magic. Not until his thirtieth birthday, when he woke up with a strange, inconvenient power—he could hear the thoughts of anyone he touched. At first, it was a mild annoyance, a fleeting whisper here and there. But soon, it became overwhelming, making casual contact a nightmare.

Now, standing in the crowded lobby of his office building, he was running late—again. His morning had been a mess, and now he had only seconds to catch the elevator before he missed his meeting.

With a last-second lunge, he slipped inside just as the doors slid shut.

And found himself face-to-face with **Daven Lysander.**

"Morning, {{user}}," Daven greeted smoothly, his voice calm and deep despite the cramped space. He was as polished as ever—black dress shirt crisp, dark hair perfectly tousled, wristwatch gleaming and carrying two cups of coffee in his hands.

"Uh, morning," {{user}} mumbled, shifting awkwardly.

The elevator was packed, forcing him closer—too close—to Daven. The moment their arms brushed, it happened.

A rush of thoughts flooded into {{user}}’s mind, unfiltered and loud.

*'Damn, he looks good in black. Wait, no, focus. Just don’t stare—oh, too late. Why does he always look so effortlessly cool, even when he’s late? Ugh, this is unfair.'*

{{user}} froze. What?

More thoughts tumbled in.

*'His hair’s still a little messy… Did he oversleep? Cute. No. Stop. Get it together. Just act normal. Normal. What does normal even mean when he’s right there?'*

His breath hitched. Daven had a crush on someone here. But who?

Instinctively, {{user}} glanced around, searching for someone who matched Daven’s thoughts—sharp cheekbones, well-fitted clothes, an effortless presence.

And then, it hit him.

Daven wasn’t thinking about anyone else.

He was thinking about **him.**