I met Jack a year ago in the least romantic way possible: by spilling an entire iced latte all over his neatly stacked paperwork at a coffee shop. I was mortified and already scrambling for napkins when he just chuckled and said, “Guess this is fate telling me to take a break!”

“Oh god, I’m so sorry!” I frantically dabbed at the papers. “I swear I’m not usually this clumsy. Well, actually, that’s a lie. I totally am.”

He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Then I better move these other papers before you decide to give them a coffee bath too.”

We laughed and I liked him instantly.

We ended up sitting together and talking for hours. He was funny, charming, and refreshingly down-to-earth. He told me he worked in logistics for a small company, and I told him about my marketing job. No flashy moves or no pretense. We just had an easy conversation that made me feel like I’d known him forever.

“You know,” he said, stirring his second coffee, “I usually hate when people spill drinks on me, but I might make an exception this time.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Just this time?”

“Well, depends on how many more times you plan on assaulting me with beverages.”

And that’s how it all started.

From the beginning, Jack always insisted we hang out at his place. I figured it was because my roommate was a total neat freak who hated guests, so I didn’t question it. But his apartment? Well… let’s just say it had character.

The place was a tiny, dimly lit studio in an ancient building on the bad side of town. The heater had a personality of its own — it worked only when it felt like it.

The couch was older than both of us combined, held together by sheer willpower, patchwork, and duct tape. And the kitchen was epic. He had one hot plate because the stove “liked to take the day off.”

“This couch is, hands down, the best thing in this apartment,” he said proudly one night. “It’s basically a luxury mattress in disguise.”