The first light of dawn crept across the pale cream walls of Lucille Carter’s bedroom, spilling over the edge of her quilted duvet like a soft whisper. Her eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks, and then, with a tiny inhale, Lucille opened her eyes.

Her morning routine began with the sound of birds chirping just beyond the ivy-framed windows of Ash Vale Manor. She took a moment to stretch—limbs long, delicate, and precise—before sliding out from beneath her covers. She crossed the room in bare feet, her nightgown trailing like morning mist, and opened the window to let in the crisp July breeze. The smell of roses from the garden below greeted her.

“Today feels different,” she murmured to no one in particular, smoothing a hand over her sleep-ruffled blonde hair.

In exactly one hour and twenty-three minutes, the term’s first classes at Marchweather Hall would begin. A day like any other, except for the whispered excitement circulating in the halls the night before—rumors of a new student, someone arriving mid-term, which rarely ever happened.

Lucille wasn't usually one to entertain gossip, but something about this felt... electrified. Like static before a storm.

She shook the thought away. Today, she’d wear her cream blouse with the little lace collar, and her pleated navy skirt, freshly pressed. Her school blazer was draped neatly over the back of a velvet chair. Every article of her uniform was clean, crisp, and exactly as she liked it.

After showering, she applied her skincare with habitual care and misted herself in a light veil of Rouge Smoking. A hint of cherry lingered in the air as she twirled a gold and ruby stud into her navel piercing and clipped matching earrings onto both earlobes. Her final act: brushing her short blonde hair into its soft shoulder-length waves, tucking a single side behind her ear.

Perfect.

She slipped on her loafers, gathered her books—stapled, numbered, sorted alphabetically—and headed down the grand staircase. Her father, already dressed for the golf club, stood in the dining room sipping his espresso.

“Morning, darling,” he said, adjusting his cufflinks.

“Morning, papa.” She leaned in and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Any charity meetings today?”

“Only two,” he smiled. “And your mother’s joining one, miraculously.”

Lucille giggled, collected a croissant from the marble kitchen counter, and exited through the front hall, her school satchel bouncing lightly at her hip.

Wren’s Nook Café was already buzzing by the time she met up with Emma, Cairo, and Allison outside its lavender-painted doors.

“Luce!” Emma cried, rushing up to give her a hug. “You look like the cover of a Jane Austen reprint.”

“You mean flawless?” Cairo grinned, brushing hair out of his eyes. Allison swatted his shoulder with mock indignation.

“You’re late,” she scolded gently, “and by late, I mean four minutes late, which for you is suspicious.”

“There was... a feeling this morning,” Lucille said, eyes dreamy. “Like something was about to happen.”

They all glanced at each other.

“The new student?” Emma prompted.

Lucille nodded. “It feels like the first page of a new chapter.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Cairo said fondly.

“Truly,” Allison agreed, wrapping her arm around his waist. “But she’s right. Rumors say she’s—”

“Pretty?” Lucille cut in, her voice light but purposeful.

“Only that,” Emma confirmed. “Apparently really pretty.”

Lucille’s heart gave a strange little lurch.

Marchweather’s halls were alive with the clatter of polished shoes, murmurs of house gossip, and the occasional peal of laughter. The stained glass windows painted the stone floors in hues of blue and amber as Lucille walked toward her literature class, her friends branching off toward their own electives.

She stepped into the classroom just as the bell rang. As always, she took the seat by the window.

She set down her bag, opened her leather notebook, straightened the page edges, and then—

The door opened again.

And there you were.

Lucille froze, breath catching like a caught silk ribbon.

You stood in the doorway as if you’d stepped out of a dream, with the morning light behind you, turning the edges of your hair to gold. The room went impossibly quiet, as though someone had silenced the world just to give Lucille time to notice every inch of you. Your uniform fit perfectly. Your posture was confident, yet graceful. Your features were striking, undeniably beautiful in a way that made Lucille’s mouth go slightly dry.

But above all, you were pretty. In the kind of way poets tried and failed to explain.

Her heart gave an inconvenient, traitorous flutter.

“This is our new student,” the professor said. “Take a seat wherever you’d like.”

You smiled—just slightly—and chose the desk right beside hers.

Lucille tried to remain calm, pressing her hand against the wood of her desk. Her cherry perfume clung faintly to the air between you. Did you notice it? Did you think she smelled nice? Did you think she looked calm, or could you sense the earthquake inside her chest?