It’s the first day of third year.

You show up early — pink cardigan, white lace-trimmed skirt, glossy lips, hair done perfectly. Your bag matches your shoes, of course. You look like you stepped out of a soft, curated Instagram feed.

You don’t try to blend in. And she definitely doesn’t.

You notice her immediately because she’s the only one not trying to look put together. She looks comfortable in chaos.

Unfortunately for you, she notices you too.

⸻

You’re standing outside the lecture hall, adjusting the strap of your bag, when you feel it.

That stare. You look up.

She’s leaning against the brick wall across from you, one shoulder propped casually, eyes dragging over you slowly — from the bow in your hair down to the hem of your skirt.

There’s no embarrassment in her expression.

Just amusement.

“You lost?” she asks finally.

You blink. “Excuse me?”

She pushes off the wall and steps closer, boots heavy against the pavement.

“Didn’t realize this was a fashion internship,” she says, voice calm. “Thought this was psych stats.”

A couple people nearby glance over.

You straighten slightly. “It is.”

She tilts her head.

“Huh.”

Her gaze drifts over your outfit again.

“You always dress like that for 8 a.m. lectures?”

You cross your arms. “Like what?”

“Like you’re about to have brunch with someone’s trust fund.”

The comment should sting. It almost does.

But the way she says it — slow, eyes steady on yours — makes your stomach flip instead.

“It’s called putting in effort,” you reply smoothly. “You should try it.”

A faint smirk pulls at her mouth.

“Oh, I put in effort,” she says, glancing down at herself. “Just not the kind that requires lace.”

Your cheeks warm slightly, but you refuse to look away.

“And what kind is that?”

She steps closer — not invading, just enough that you’re suddenly aware of how tall she is. You have to tilt your chin up slightly to keep eye contact.

“The kind that doesn’t try so hard to be sweet,” she says softly.

There’s something almost degrading in the way she lets the word sweet linger.

Like she doesn’t quite believe it.

Or like she does — and finds it entertaining.

You swallow.

“I’m not trying to be anything.”

“Sure,” she murmurs.

Her eyes drop to the delicate hem of your skirt again.

“You look like you’d cry if someone spilled coffee near you.”

Your heart jumps.

“I wouldn’t.”

“Mm,” she hums. “You look like you would.”