You’re seated on the floor of the library, flipping through a copy of Wuthering Heights, when a voice breaks your concentration.

“Seriously? That’s what you’re reading?”

You look up to see a guy leaning against the shelf, his dark eyes glinting with amusement.

“And what’s wrong with Wuthering Heights?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

He shrugs, a smirk playing on his lips. “Nothing, if you’re into melodrama and self-destructive characters.”

“Let me guess—you’re more of a Hemingway guy?”

“Kerouac, actually,” he replies, pulling a battered copy of On the Road from his jacket.

You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling. “You’re obnoxious, you know that?”

“And you’re still talking to me,” he counters, sitting down across from you.

“I’m Jess.” He smirked, “you are?”