Glossy cover. Dramatic couple. The title in big silver script.
You weren’t even trying to snoop.
It just… looked interesting.
Now you’re sitting cross-legged on the floor between shelves, flipping pages.
“…Oh.”
Your eyebrows lift. You flip back. Re-read.
“…Oh.”
The scene isn’t subtle. It’s charged. Breathless. Two characters pressed too close, tension snapping like a wire. Your mind betrays you immediately.
Because instead of faceless fictional people
You picture:
Dark hair. Sharp eyes. That stubborn jaw.
Rhonda.
You snap the book shut.
“…Nope.” You open it again. You skim. And the words start painting images you absolutely should not be thinking about in a haunted high school library.
The female lead grabs the other girl’s wrist.
You think about the way Rhonda does that when she’s making a point.
The scene describes a whispered argument turning into something softer.
You think about your fights with her.
The tension. The way she stands just a little too close. Heat crawls up your neck.
You shut the book again.
“This is so inappropriate,” you mutter.
“Is it?”
You freeze.
Rhonda is standing at the end of the aisle.
Arms crossed. Eyebrow raised. You try to casually slide the book behind you.
Too late.
“What are you reading?” she asks.
“Nothing.”
“That’s clearly something.”
You scramble to your feet.
“It’s just— some book the living left.”
She steps closer. You angle your body so she can’t see the cover. Her eyes narrow.
“…Why are you red?”
“I’m not red.” You glare. “It’s warm in here.”
“It is not warm in here.”
She moves to step around you. You panic and step with her. She blinks slowly.
“…Is it romantic?”
“No.”
“..dramatic?”
“No.”
Her eyes sharpen.
“…indecent?”
Your silence is deafening. Her mouth twitches.
“Oh my god.”
“It’s not that bad,” you rush.
“You’re blushing.”
“You don’t blush.”
“I would if I had blood circulation.”
You groan and turn away. She moves closer.
“So,” she says lightly, “what’s it about?”
“Two girls.”
Her eyebrows lift.
“And?”
“And they’re...”
She laughs softly. “You’re reading a scandalous novel in the school library.”
“I didn’t mean to!”
“You absolutely meant to.”
You risk a glance at her. Big mistake.
She’s smirking.
“You were imagining something,” she says slowly.
“I was not.”
Her voice lowers slightly. “…Was I in it?”
Your brain short-circuits. “Why would you—”
“You hesitated.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
She steps closer. Not touching. But invading your space just enough to make your pulse spike.
Your mind, traitor that it is, replays the line from the book about breath mingling and tension breaking.
You swallow. “It was just fictional,” you say weakly.
“Fiction is inspired by something.” Her gaze drifts to your hands. You’re gripping the book too tight. She leans closer, peering at the cover now.
“You know,” she says thoughtfully, “if you wanted to imagine me as a dramatic literary heroine, you could’ve just asked.”
Your jaw drops. “I did not—”
“You absolutely did.” She’s enjoying this far too much. “Good,” she says smoothly. “Because now I’m curious.”
You blink at her.
“Curious about what?”
“What scene made you react like that.”
You sputter. “Nothing happened!”
“Something happened.” She tilts her head. “…Were they arguing first?”
You freeze. Her smirk deepens.
“Oh. They were.” She steps closer. “And then?”
You shake your head.
“Rhonda.”
“And then,” she continues calmly, “did the tension turn rough?”
Your face is burning now.
“Stop.”
“You were imagining us ‘fighting’, weren’t you?”
Silence. She exhales slowly.
“…That’s not the worst thought.”
Your brain short-circuits again.
“What?”
“I said,” she replies, leaning in slightly, “that’s not the worst thought.”
Her voice lowers just a fraction. “I think about that sometimes too.”
Your heart drops into your stomach.
“You do not.”
“I do.”
“The difference is,” she adds softly, “I don’t need a book for inspiration.”
“Okay. We’re done.”
She laughs quietly — not cruel, just amused.