"Fortune favors the bold."

I whisper it under my breath, clutching the warm paper cup. Fortune favors the bold. Fortune favors the bold.

I can't keep watching from a distance. Not when every laugh of hers echoes in my head for days. Not when the vanilla—and something sharp, like black pepper—of her perfume lingers in my memory long after she's left the computer lab.

It’s not enough.

I want more. I want to hear her laugh with me. I want to take her to the Tech Noir synthwave concert ...