Orange Juice and First Looks

It was late August, the kind of summer heat that made your t-shirt stick to your back even indoors, and the noise of hundreds of new and returning students ricocheted off the high ceilings, a constant, dull roar. Caleb clutched his tray, navigating the labyrinth of tables, plastic chairs, and milling bodies with a sort of focused desperation. He’d woken up late, missed breakfast at the dorm, and now his stomach felt like an empty drum banging for attention. His lunch, a sad-looking chicken wrap and a carton of orange juice, felt precarious in his grip.

He usually took his meals back to his room, preferring the quiet hum of his laptop to the cacophony of mingling voices. But the dorm’s mini-fridge was on the fritz, a persistent, low-grade thrum that made milk curdle faster than it should, and he wasn't about to let his juice get warm. Plus, his roommate, Liam, was probably still snoring, sprawled across the twin bed, limbs everywhere. Caleb spotted an empty table in the far corner, tucked away by a window that looked out onto a patch of parched grass and a row of wilting petunias. Almost there. Just a few more paces through the jostling crowd, past the group of loud freshmen already swapping class schedules, past the professor with the tweed jacket despite the heat, gesticulating wildly over a bowl of chili.

His attention, fractured by the heat and the hunger, snagged on a stray backpack strap swinging wildly as someone ahead turned abruptly. Caleb swerved, a reflex, but it wasn't enough. His elbow snagged something, a solid mass, and time seemed to stretch, thin and rubbery. He watched, almost in slow motion, as the orange juice carton tipped, then slipped from his fingers. It arced, a bright orange trajectory, before hitting a denim-clad hip and bursting. A silent, sticky explosion. Orange liquid fanned out, splattering across a worn canvas tote bag, across the pale blue of a button-down shirt, across the exposed skin of an arm.

A collective gasp, then a sudden hush in their immediate vicinity. Caleb felt his face flush hot, hotter than the summer air. His own chicken wrap, somehow, had stayed in his grip, a small miracle. He looked up, mouth open, ready to blurt out a mortified apology, and found himself staring into eyes the color of deep river stones. They belonged to a guy a little taller than him, maybe a year or two older. Hair, dark and tousled, fell across a sharp jawline. There was a smudge of something on his cheek, possibly a pen mark. He looked… startled. And then, a flicker, a slow dawning of something like amusement. Not anger. Not even annoyance.

“Oh my god,” Caleb managed, his voice coming out a reedy squeak. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple, itching. “I am so, so sorry. I didn’t – I wasn’t looking –” He gestured vaguely, helplessly, at the growing orange stain blooming across the guy's chest. It looked like a terrible, edible bruise. The guy just blinked, his dark eyes still holding that weird, almost-smile. He was holding a small, worn paperback, now also speckled with orange, and a half-eaten bagel. The bagel, at least, seemed to have escaped the worst. He wasn't even holding a tray, just these two items, as if he’d been about to escape the cafeteria for quieter pastures himself.

“It’s, uh, fine,” the guy said, his voice a low, even tone, a little rough around the edges, like he’d just woken up. He peered down at the sticky mess on his shirt. “Just… juice.” He sounded almost surprised by the discovery. He didn’t seem mad. This, somehow, made Caleb feel even worse. If he’d been angry, Caleb would know what to do. Apologize profusely, offer to pay for the dry cleaning. But this quiet acceptance, this strange, almost-smile, threw him off balance. He felt his hands begin to shake a little, a familiar nervousness that flared up in any unexpected social encounter.

“No, it’s not fine! Your shirt, your bag, your… your book!” Caleb stammered, pointing at the paperback. It looked like some kind of fantasy novel, its cover depicting a shadowy, horned creature. Definitely not juice-friendly. “I can – I can get you another one. A new shirt. Or… I can help you clean this.” He fumbled for the paper napkin dispenser on a nearby pillar, tugging out a handful of the thin, scratchy squares. He extended them, a pitiful offering. The guy chuckled then, a low rumble that surprised Caleb, and also, for some reason, made a hot, uncomfortable feeling curl in his stomach. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. Just… unexpected.

“Another shirt might be overkill,” the guy said, still with that small, almost imperceptible curve to his lips. He took the napkins, a couple of them. His fingers were long, surprisingly lean, and there was a small, faded scar just above his knuckles. He pressed a napkin gently to the juice-soaked denim of his tote. “But, uh, thanks.” He met Caleb’s gaze again, and this time, the amusement was clearer, less guarded. “I’m Noah, by the way.”

“Caleb,” Caleb blurted out, a little too quickly. His cheeks felt like they were on fire. He still had his chicken wrap. It felt like a prop, something to hold onto. “It’s really good to meet you, Noah. Under… different circumstances.” He tried for a smile, felt it wobble on his face. Noah’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled back, a genuine smile this time, though still a little reserved. It was a good smile. It made the air feel a little lighter, less heavy with cafeteria fumes and awkwardness.

“Yeah, well,” Noah said, shrugging a shoulder, sending another ripple of orange down his sleeve. “Could be worse. At least it wasn’t mustard. Or milk.” He dabbed again at his shirt, but it was a losing battle. The juice had already soaked into the fabric, setting up permanent residence. “I was just heading out to get some air anyway. This place gets a little… much.” He gestured with his bagel at the crowded room, then took a bite, chewing slowly, thoughtfully.

“Tell me about it,” Caleb agreed, relieved to find a point of common ground. “I usually eat in my room. But my fridge decided to take a vacation.” He found himself stepping closer, a strange, involuntary pull towards Noah. “Listen, seriously, let me buy you a new shirt. Or at least lunch. I owe you.” Noah hesitated, crunching on his bagel. His eyes flickered away for a moment, scanning the room, then came back to Caleb. He seemed to be weighing the offer, considering it with a quiet intensity that Caleb found both disarming and a little intriguing.

“You don’t really owe me anything, it was an accident,” Noah said, but his tone was softer now, less dismissive. “But… another bagel wouldn't hurt. And maybe a coffee. This one’s, uh, ruined.” He held up the fantasy novel. The cover was definitely compromised, the colors bleeding slightly where the juice had seeped in. “This copy, anyway.” Caleb felt a surge of relief. A path forward. A way to fix at least some of the mess. “Great! Okay, great. There’s a bookstore on campus, right? And the coffee shop across the quad?”

“Yeah,” Noah confirmed, nodding slowly. He stuffed the juice-soaked napkins into his pocket. “Or we could just grab another bagel here. And some water to try and rinse this off.” He gestured to his shirt. “My dorm’s like, a five-minute walk. I could change.” Caleb found himself nodding along, eyes still fixed on Noah’s face. He noticed a small, almost imperceptible dimple that appeared just next to Noah’s mouth when he talked. He hadn’t noticed it before. Or maybe it just appeared when Noah was considering something, when he wasn't quite smiling, but wasn't quite serious either. He also noticed the faint scent of something earthy, like old books and maybe a hint of pine, clinging to Noah despite the orange juice. It was a pleasant smell.

“Right, yeah, that makes sense,” Caleb said, trying to sound nonchalant, like his heart wasn’t doing a strange little flutter against his ribs. “I can wait.” He shifted his weight, suddenly conscious of his own slightly rumpled t-shirt and the way his hair probably looked after rolling out of bed. He mentally cursed Liam for hogging the bathroom mirror. Noah, meanwhile, looked… relaxed, even with the juice stain. His dark hair looked intentionally messy, but in a way that worked. He carried himself with a quiet confidence that Caleb both admired and felt a little intimidated by. Liam would probably say something dumb, like ‘he’s got a vibe.’ But Liam said that about anyone who didn’t immediately start yelling when a minor inconvenience occurred.

“Okay,” Noah said, a beat of silence, then a faint smile again. “Come on, then. My room’s in Willow Hall, it’s not far.” He started to move, slow and unhurried, picking his way through the cafeteria tables like he’d been doing it his whole life, completely unbothered by the orange blotch on his chest. Caleb hurried to catch up, his chicken wrap still clutched in one hand. He felt a weird lightness in his chest, a contrast to the heavy heat outside. He’d just spilled orange juice all over a stranger, and instead of being chewed out, he was now… walking with him to his dorm. University was definitely full of surprises.

They exited the loud, stuffy cafeteria into the glaring midday sun. The air was thick, still, and shimmered above the asphalt walkways. Heat pulsed off the red brick buildings. Caleb squinted, adjusting to the brightness. Noah, meanwhile, seemed unfazed, walking at an easy pace, his shoulders relaxed. “So,” Caleb started, trying to keep the conversation flowing, aware of the quiet. “What are you studying, Noah?” Noah glanced at him, a half-smile playing on his lips. “Mostly trying to figure that out, honestly. But… creative writing, maybe. And you?”

“Business,” Caleb replied, a little sheepishly. “Not as exciting, I guess.” He was suddenly self-conscious about his choice, comparing it to Noah's, which sounded much more interesting. He kicked at a loose pebble on the path. “My parents, you know. They think it’s… practical.” Noah hummed, a low sound in his throat. “Practical’s good. Someone’s gotta keep the world running. And anyway, practical doesn't mean boring. You can do cool stuff with business, right? Like… invent a better juice carton. One that doesn’t explode on contact.” He winked, a quick, easy gesture that made Caleb laugh, a genuine, unforced sound that felt good to let out.

“Okay, fair point,” Caleb conceded, feeling some of the tension ease out of his shoulders. He liked that Noah wasn’t judging him. He liked the easy way Noah made a joke. “Yeah, I guess you could. I hadn’t really thought of it that way.” They walked in comfortable silence for a moment, the only sounds the distant rumble of traffic and the cicadas buzzing somewhere in the trees. Caleb stole another glance at Noah, at the way the sunlight caught the dark strands of his hair, at the steady, unhurried rhythm of his stride. He wondered what Noah was thinking about. If he was still annoyed, deep down. If he’d forget this whole incident as soon as Caleb bought him a new book and they parted ways.

Noah led them into Willow Hall, a slightly older brick building with ivy clinging to its sides, looking a bit more worn than Caleb's own newer, shinier dorm. The lobby was cool, a welcome respite from the heat, and smelled faintly of old wood and cleaning supplies. They took the elevator up, the ascent slow and creaky. Inside the small metal box, the silence felt louder, more significant. Caleb found himself nervously adjusting the grip on his chicken wrap. He could feel Noah's presence beside him, the faint warmth radiating off him, the lingering scent of that earthy, pine-like smell. He caught Noah watching him in the elevator’s reflective surface, then Noah quickly looked away, but not before Caleb saw a small, almost shy smile play on his lips.

“This is it,” Noah said, stepping out onto the third floor. He led them down a hallway lined with identical beige doors, past a bulletin board covered in faded flyers for long-past events. He stopped at a door near the end, pulling a key card from his pocket. The card swipe made a soft *beep*, and the lock clicked. He pushed the door open, revealing a room that was… well, lived in. Posters of obscure bands and movie stills covered the walls. A guitar leaned against a cluttered desk. Clothes, not dirty but definitely not folded, lay draped over a chair. A half-empty mug of something was on the bedside table. It smelled faintly of peppermint and something else Caleb couldn't quite place.

“Sorry about the mess,” Noah said, sounding only mildly apologetic. He tossed his keys onto the desk, where they landed with a clatter amongst a pile of books. “Didn’t exactly prepare for visitors.” He disappeared into a small closet, emerging a moment later with a fresh, plain grey t-shirt. “I’ll just… be a minute. Bathroom’s through there.” He pointed to a closed door. Caleb nodded, trying to appear casual as he took in the room. He felt a weird, intrusive curiosity about Noah, about the stories behind the posters, the dog-eared books, the half-written notes on the desk. He set his chicken wrap down carefully on a small, empty patch of desk, next to a rock that looked suspiciously like a geode.

He heard the muffled sound of a tap running, then a splash. Caleb found himself staring at a framed photograph on Noah’s desk. It was an older, slightly blurry picture of Noah, younger, maybe middle school, laughing with another guy, probably his brother or a friend. They were both wearing oversized hoodies, sitting on what looked like a porch swing, sunlight dappling through leaves overhead. Noah’s smile in the picture was wide, uninhibited, and the sight of it made something warm spread in Caleb’s chest. He wondered what made Noah smile like that now. He wondered if he’d ever see it.

Noah reappeared, pulling the clean grey shirt over his head. His hair was slightly damp, and he ran a hand through it, pushing it back from his forehead. The new shirt made him look… even better, somehow. Less like a walking orange juice advertisement, more like the quiet, intense guy with the river-stone eyes. He picked up his still-damp blue shirt, wrinkling his nose slightly. “Alright, where were we? Ah, yes. Food and books.” He picked up his injured fantasy novel. “This one’s ‘The Serpent’s Coil.’ Not exactly a best-seller, but I liked it. A lot of the library copies are always checked out.”

“The Serpent’s Coil,” Caleb repeated, trying out the title. He hadn’t really read much fantasy, preferring historical fiction or even just textbook summaries. But he found himself oddly interested, just because Noah had said it. “So, where do we start? The bookstore for a replacement, or lunch first?” Noah leaned against his desk, crossing his arms. The movement pulled the fabric of his shirt just slightly, emphasizing the quiet strength of his shoulders. He looked at Caleb, and this time, the look held for a moment longer than before. There was something in his eyes, a depth, a thoughtfulness that went beyond the spilled juice.

“Let’s get lunch first,” Noah finally said, his voice soft. “I'm actually starving. And… I know a pretty good spot, just off campus. They do these really solid burritos. You up for a short walk?” He watched Caleb expectantly, a hint of curiosity in his gaze. Caleb felt a definite, undeniable hum of anticipation in his stomach, far beyond mere hunger. A walk, a burrito, a new book, and maybe, just maybe, more of whatever this was, this strange, unexpected meeting. He had a feeling this new semester was going to be anything but boring.

“Yeah,” Caleb said, a wide smile finally breaking free on his face. “Yeah, I’m definitely up for a walk. And burritos sound… perfect.”