Excerpt from Everyone Deserves Love
By John Baicich

The Barnes & Noble near campus was crowded with the nervous, frantic energy of the first week of classes, but John Mason had already managed to carve out a quiet pocket of invisibility for himself.

He stood tucked deep into the aisles of approved course textbooks, holding a heavy volume open with both hands. It was an instinct as old as his adolescence: find a corner, stay quiet, and take up as little space as humanly possible. John was twenty, soft-spoken, and carrying the kind of self-conscious weight that made him instinctively pull his oversized sweaters a little tighter around his frame. But here, surrounded by the crisp scent of new paper, printer ink, and polished wood, he felt steady. His glasses slipped slightly down the bridge of his nose as his finger traced a line of text, his lips moving silently with the words, completely lost in the rhythm of what he was reading.

A sudden brush against his shoulder broke the spell.

"Excuse me—sorry about that," a voice said.

John looked up, his apology already half-formed, only for the words to die instantly in his throat.

Standing right in front of him was quite possibly the most striking man John had ever seen. He was broad-shouldered and easily six-foot-two, carrying an effortless, athletic grace that looked as though it had been forged on a wrestling mat and perfected by pure genetic luck. His dark hair was carelessly tousled, framing a strong jawline and a pair of magnetic hazel eyes that held a relaxed, easy warmth. He wore a fitted graphic tee and dark jeans, looking entirely comfortable in his own skin in a way John couldn't even begin to imagine.

The stranger offered a disarming, lopsided smile and held out a crumpled sheet of paper. "Do you think you could help me out? I'm trying to track down these books for class, and I'm totally striking out."

John felt the heat rising in his cheeks before his brain could even process what was happening. His pulse thudded against his ribs.

"I… uh… I think they’re over there," John stammered, pointing a slightly shaky hand toward the display at the far end of the aisle.

The stranger’s smile widened, amused and curious. "Could you show me?"

Without trusting his voice to form another full sentence, John nodded and led the way down the narrow row. He could feel the sheer physical presence of the taller guy walking half a step behind him, the subtle scent of soap and cedarwood trailing in his wake.

"Here you go," John said, pulling the required titles from the shelf and handing over the stack, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on the glossy covers rather than meeting those hazel eyes again.
Mission accomplished, John instinctively began to turn away, ready to retreat back into the safety of his solitude.

A warm, light grip caught his forearm.

The touch wasn't forceful, but it was enough to make John freeze.

"Any chance you can help me find the rest of them?" the guy asked, his tone softer now, playful and lingering.

John swallowed hard, adjusting his glasses with his free hand. "I'm sorry… I don't work here."

The stranger paused, his expression going completely blank for half a heartbeat. "…You don't?"
John shook his head, a small, embarrassed smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite his best efforts. "No. I just… came here to buy my own books."

A beat of quiet hung in the air between them.

Then the handsome stranger let out a sharp breath, running a hand through his dark hair as a quiet, self-deprecating laugh escaped him. "Wow. Okay. That is entirely on me. I am so sorry."
"It's fine," John said, his shoulders easing just a fraction. "You're not the first person to assume."

The stranger tilted his head, studying John not as an employee or a passing face, but with genuine, undivided interest. "Really? Because you looked way too comfortable over there. Like you owned the place."

John huffed a quiet laugh, looking down at his shoes. "I just like reading, I guess."

"Yeah," the man murmured, his voice dipping lower, thoughtful and resonant. "I can tell."

There was something in the way he said it—something that didn't feel like casual bookstore banter—that sent a sudden shiver across John's skin.

To break the sudden intensity of the moment, John gestured to the list. "What else are you looking for?"

The guy shrugged, glancing down at his paper. "Honestly? No idea. Something about introductory ethics. Probably boring as hell."

John's eyes lit up before his usual caution could stop him. "Oh—it's actually not. If it’s the syllabus I'm thinking of, there's a whole section on moral pressure in competitive environments. It's… surprisingly fascinating."

The stranger blinked, his eyebrows lifting in genuine surprise. "…You just made ethics sound way less painful." 

John felt his cheeks burn again. "Sorry. I ramble." 

"Don't apologize," the guy said quickly, stepping half a pace closer. "I like it."

The words slipped out with effortless honesty, hanging in the narrow space between them. John noticed. The guy noticed that he noticed. But instead of backing away, he held John’s gaze, leaning in just enough to shift the gravity of the room.

"Since you don't work here," he said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial murmur, "I guess I owe you a proper apology."

"You already apologized."

"Yeah," the guy said, a slow, dimpled grin spreading across his face, "but I feel like I should do it right. Starting with an introduction… I'm Hank. Hank Palance." He extended a broad, warm hand.
Hesitantly, John slipped his hand into Hank’s. Hank’s grip was firm and steady, his palm rough around the edges from athletic training, lingering just a second longer than a handshake between strangers usually did.

"John Mason," John replied softly. "Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too, John. Are you an NYU student?"

"Yeah. Just started this semester."

"Me too," Hank said, his smile softening into something undeniably genuine. "Listen, since we're both new and trying to survive campus, maybe we could hang out sometime? Grab coffee or something?"

John stared at him, genuinely caught off guard. Guys who looked like Hank Palance didn't ask guys like John Mason to hang out. It defied every social equation John had ever calculated.

"Uh… sure. That would be cool."

Hank pulled his phone from his pocket, typing as he spoke. "Are you in the dorms or off-campus?"

"Palladium Hall," John answered.

"No way, I'm right next door," Hank said, handing his phone over for John to punch in his number. "Text me, or stop by. Seriously."

After paying at the register, Hank gave John a final, easy wave and disappeared through the glass double doors onto the bustling Manhattan street. John stood frozen by the reading section, holding his bag of textbooks, feeling as though the air had been entirely displaced. He tried to skim through another chapter, but his eyes merely drifted over the same sentence five times.

Giving up, he walked out into the cool late-afternoon air.

He was halfway across Washington Square Park when his phone chimed sharply in his pocket. He pulled it out, his thumb swiping across the screen.

Unknown Number: Hey, this is the rude stranger who thought you worked at the bookstore. It was great making a new friend. See ya soon, Bookstore.

John stopped on the brick path, watching the autumn light stretch long shadows across the pavement. He stared at the screen, his chest tightening with a strange, dizzying mixture of fear and anticipation, before typing a simple reply:

See ya soon.

He slid the phone back into his pocket and kept walking toward his dorm, his heart beating a little faster than it had that morning, haunted by the quiet, terrifying thought that something important had just begun.