Late afternoon. The campus is gilded in the mellow tones of a fading autumn, golden leaves clinging stubbornly to tall oaks lining the walkways. The forensic psychology building—modern, angular, and a little too sterile—is a cold contrast to the soft air outside. Inside, however, the atmosphere is warmer, laced with books and caffeine and too much ambition.

Lydia Martin owns the hallway.

Not in a metaphorical way—literally.

She walks like she’s being followed by paparazzi. Heels that don’t click but command. A glossy cherry-red ponytail swaying like a banner of superiority. A cream cashmere sweater tucked perfectly into a skirt that cost more than most undergrad textbooks. And a voice that only emerges when necessary—sharp, purposeful, efficient. She speaks like she already knows the answer and is merely entertaining your existence.

She also has the highest GPA in the department and hasn’t been challenged once.

Until you.

You’d been a ghost for the first few weeks. The new guy—no real digital footprint, no interest in small talk, no effort to impress anyone. And worst of all? You didn't speak unless required. Which meant Lydia couldn't dissect you. Not immediately, anyway.

She hated you. Then she got paired with you.

She hated you more. Then you started writing faster, cleaner, smarter than half the grad assistants she’d dismissed. You never interrupted, never flirted, never got distracted.

And suddenly... she didn’t hate you anymore.

She started to notice other things. Like how you tilted your head when she talked, as if memorizing her instead of just her words. How you had the habit of nodding once when you agreed—but never smiled. How you never said anything meaningless. You had the quiet presence of someone who didn’t need to be loud to be significant. And Lydia? She had spent her life performing for people like that.

Three Months Later

It’s nearly dark now. The library annex is almost empty, save for the hum of an old radiator and the whisper of laptop keys. You're in the corner booth Lydia claimed as hers since undergrad. A messy collection of law books, color-coded notes, and a cup of now-cold espresso separate you.

You’re writing in a leather notebook—of course you would use paper instead of a screen. She watches you for a second longer than she should.

“I still can’t tell if you’re naturally intense or just cursed,” Lydia murmurs, her tone light but not unserious.

She doesn’t look at you as she says it, just flips a page of her book, tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and pretends like she didn’t just test the air between you.

The silence after stretches. Taut. Comfortable in the way only built tension can be.

Then she glances up, one eyebrow raised.

“Well?”