"Love at First Fright"

Emily wasn’t looking for love. She was just trying to survive her Tuesday without causing a minor disaster—again. After accidentally setting her scarf on fire last week with a scented candle ("Pumpkin Spice Trauma" as she now referred to it), she was playing it safe. No flames. No drama. Just coffee.

She ordered her usual: iced coffee, no sugar, extra existential dread. As she turned to leave the café, fate stepped in—with sneakers, awkward reflexes, and zero spatial awareness.

A very tall man collided with her, sending coffee splashing down her shirt, her tote bag flying across the floor, and any remaining dignity down the drain.

“Oh my God, I’m so—” he started.

Emily, soaked in caffeine and sarcasm, interrupted: “If this is a meet-cute, I’m suing.”

He looked horrified. Then amused. Then sincerely apologetic. “At least let me pay for dry cleaning,” he said, holding out a napkin like it was a peace offering. She accepted it, dabbed her sweater, and told him dryly, “Unless that napkin is made of miracles, you owe me a new top.”

They parted ways, both slightly embarrassed but with just enough awkward charm to plant a seed.

A few days later, Emily went for a jog in the park. The universe, now fully invested in her love life, decided it was time for round two.

There he was again—Coffee Guy—sitting on a bench, unwrapping a granola bar, looking entirely innocent. Until a squirrel appeared. An aggressive one. The furry menace launched itself at the granola like it hadn't eaten since the Bush administration.

“I think he wants your wallet,” Emily called out, slowing her jog.

“It’s gluten-free!” he shouted as the squirrel launched a second assault.

She laughed so hard she nearly choked on her water. He eventually surrendered the snack to the bushy-tailed bandit and turned to her, defeated but smiling.

“Do I always look like this when you see me?” he asked.

“Like a man losing a fight to a squirrel? Yeah. It’s your brand.”

They talked. He introduced himself—Liam—and they walked the loop together. It was weirdly nice. Comfortable. Like they were old friends with a bizarre origin story.

The next week, they bumped into each other again. And again. Until it became… a thing.

Liam finally asked her out at the grocery store, mid-avocado section.

“Are you an avocado?” he blurted out.

Emily raised an eyebrow. “Because?”

“Because I guac your world.”

She stared at him for a long, painful second.

“That was horrible,” he admitted. “But I panicked. There was a sale on melons and I lost my cool.”

Against all logic, she said yes.

Their first date started wonderfully. Dinner was lovely. Dessert was magical. Then came the pistachio gelato.

“I told them no nuts,” Liam said between wheezes as Emily drove him to the ER. “I swear I told them.”

“You told them you were nuts,” she said. “Big difference.”

By the time the Benadryl kicked in and he stopped hallucinating that the nurse was his second-grade teacher, she was holding his hand.

She didn’t let go.

Now, they’re a couple. A real one. The kind that laughs too loud in movie theaters and carries emergency antihistamines everywhere they go. Liam still tells terrible pickup lines. Emily still pretends to hate them.

And sometimes, on a quiet afternoon, they’ll pass a squirrel in the park and both flinch just a little.

Because sometimes love doesn’t strike like lightning—it hits like hot coffee, squirrel chaos, and a pun so bad, it just might work.