Luke Maxwell was sprawled across his tattered brown couch.
The kind you'd find in a thrift store and immediately regret buying.
A greasy box of pepperoni pizza sat open on the coffee table in front of him.
A few stray crumbs dotting the surface like tiny, oily constellations.
The TV flickered with the vibrant colors of a football match.
The commentators' voices bouncing around the room with an energy that starkly contrasted Luke's own.
He reached for another slice without taking his eyes off the screen, the cheese stretching out in lazy defiance.
At 25, Luke was the definition of average.
Average height, average looks, and a personality so nondescript it could blend into wallpaper.
He didn't mind, though.
His life was simple.
Work, eat, sleep, and drink.
Rinse and repeat.
It was a formula that had served him well enough.
Recently, he'd been promoted to manager at the city's local sportswear factory.
A place that churned out football jerseys like they were hotcakes.
Luke wasn't exactly thrilled by the promotion.
But it did come with a small pay bump and less sweat on the factory floor.
The job, however, had one unintended side effect.
It got him hooked on football.
Not playing, of course—those days were long gone.
And even in high school.
He'd been the guy warming the bench more than running plays.
No, watching football was his thing now.
Night after night, he'd sit glued to the screen.
Marveling at the players' talent, their passion, their ability to make the impossible look effortless.
It wasn't that he idolized them.
No, Luke was the kind of guy who lived vicariously through the triumphs of others.
It wasn't glamorous, but it filled the quiet void in his unremarkable life.
Still, sometimes—like tonight—he couldn't help but wonder.
"What if—"
He mumbled around a mouthful of pizza.
"I actually tried back then?"
The thought hung in the air.
Thick as the pizza grease on his fingers.
He let it linger.
Staring at the screen where a player celebrated a spectacular goal, arms stretched wide like a triumphant eagle.
Luke felt a pang—not envy exactly.
But something close.
Regret? Maybe.
He wasn't bitter, though.
Life had been kind enough.
But there was that gnawing question.
What if he'd dared to be more than average?
What if he'd chased something, anything.
With all the fervor those players showed?
He leaned back.
Tossing the pizza crust into the box and wiping his hands on his sweatpants.
"If I got another shot...I'd do it differently."
He said to no one in particular.
His gaze hardened, and for a moment.
The flickering light from the TV made him look almost...determined.
"No hesitation. I'd go big. Hell, I'd even take on the supernatural if it meant being more than just me."
The room fell silent save for the noise of the game.
Luke didn't know it yet, but fate had an odd sense of humor.
Sometimes, it listens when you're not even talking to it.
...
Luke Maxwell swirled the remnants of his tequila shot.
Staring blankly at the TV mounted above the bar.
Another football match played.
The crowd roaring, players sprinting.
And commentators hyping every move like it was the world's end.
It was his usual spot on a Thursday night.
His usual drink, and his usual routine.
The bar was alive with chatter and laughter.
But Luke was an island of quiet in the chaos.
Content to let the world spin without him.
Then came the tap on his shoulder.
Luke flinched slightly, more surprised than startled.
Turning around, he saw her.
A woman so striking she seemed out of place in the dimly lit bar.
Her dark brown hair cascaded over her shoulders.
And her semi-revealing outfit walked the fine line between alluring and intimidating.
She was a walking showstopper.
And for the first time in a long time.
Luke's default "cool" cracked just a little.
"Hi."
She said with a smile that could've melted icebergs.
"I'm Hailey Quinn."
Luke blinked.
Momentarily at a loss.
Then instinctively reached out to shake her extended hand.
"Uh, Luke Maxwell."
He replied.
His voice even but his heart doing cartwheels.
He wasn't bad with women.
He'd had his fair share of experiences—but this?
This felt different.
Women like Hailey didn't usually tap guys like him on the shoulder.
"I think you're cute."
Hailey said.
Leaning in slightly.
Luke froze.
Cute? Him?
He wasn't ugly, sure.
But he was Mr. Middle-of-the-Road.
Women like Hailey usually gravitated toward the gym rats, the CEOs.
Or the bartenders with forearms that looked like they could bench-press a car.
But here she was, calling him cute.
He didn't let it rattle him.
If life had taught him anything.
It was not to question a good thing.
"Thanks."
He said smoothly.
Offering a casual smile.
"You're not too bad yourself."
They laughed, and the ice broke.
The conversation flowed easily.
Small talk about football, tequila, and the strange crowd at the bar tonight.
Time melted away, and before Luke knew it.
They were stumbling through the door of his apartment.
One thing led to another, and now he was lying in bed.
Hailey asleep in his arms.
Her hair spilling across the pillow like silk.
Luke stared at the ceiling.
His mind swimming in a cocktail of disbelief and smug satisfaction.
She'd confessed she'd just broken up with her boyfriend and needed some company.
He didn't mind.
This wasn't love, and he knew it.
It was a moment, a fleeting connection.
And he was okay with that.
After all, how often does a guy like him get to share a night with someone like her?
But as he closed his eyes.
A strange sensation washed over him—a prickling awareness.
Like the universe holding its breath.
His eyelids felt heavy.
But his gut told him something was different.
Something was off.