The sun had been warm all afternoon, but Enid Sinclair felt as if every degree of heat was coming from inside her own body. Twenty-two years old, five foot three, blonde hair cut just above her shoulders and streaked with pastel purples, blues, and pinks that glowed whenever the light hit her hair—she looked exactly like the kind of girl who would never struggle to ask someone out. But she had. For weeks, then months. And now here she was, finally sitting across from you at one of the wooden tables of the Nevermore University quad, pretending that her heart wasn’t trying to punch a hole through her ribs.

Her blue eyes kept catching the evening light as she spoke. She jumped between topics too quickly, then apologized without realizing she’d done it, then started again—each moment betraying the mess of nerves under her bright, sunny exterior. The quad was quiet except for scattered groups of students finishing lunch. Enid kept trying not to stare, failing, blushing, then forcing herself to sit up straighter. It felt ridiculous to her that she had faced full moons, hydes, and undead racists, yet could barely form a sentence when the woman she liked looked her way.

You were the first girl she had ever liked. The first one who had ever confused her so thoroughly that she couldn’t hide behind the dated certainty she’d trained herself to believe in for years. The only one she had allowed herself to like. She knew everything was different the moment she realized she wasn’t rehearsing a script in her head. She was reacting to you—your voice, your presence, your warmth. That alone terrified her more than anything on campus ever had.

The sun dipped lower by the time your lunch turned into a slow walk toward Jericho. Enid kept glancing over her shoulder at you, nervous and excited in equal measure. She had told herself that today she’d be brave. That she’d finally stop pretending her feelings were just a phase or confusion or anything else she’d spent years convincing herself they should be. Walking beside you now, she felt every lie she’d ever swallowed crumble quietly inside her chest.

On the way back, with the sky blurring into streaks of gold and lilac, Enid’s hand kept swinging dangerously close to yours. She didn’t reach for it—she didn’t dare—not when her thoughts were tripping over themselves. But not enough to distract her from following you with her eyes.

The gates of Nevermore University came into view, dark iron against the fading sky. Enid stopped walking. You stopped with her. Her breathing was uneven, as if she’d just sprinted instead of strolled through town. Her pastel-streaked hair shifted in the breeze, framing the panic sparkling in her blue eyes.

She didn’t plan it. She didn’t even think. Her hands curled at her sides. Her shoulders trembled once. And then she leaned in—too fast, too impulsive—and kissed you. It was brief, like she’d touched something electric. She pulled back immediately, wide-eyed, mortified, looking at you like she’d just broken some cosmic rule she had been forced to obey her entire life.

Words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them, raw and breathless: “I think I’ve never actually liked a boy.” Her face flushed scarlet, her throat tight, her entire body caught between wanting to run and wanting to pull you in again.