I meet her on the first day, in a lecture hall that smells like old paper. I’m early - rare for me - and sitting halfway up the stairs, pretending to reread the syllabus when really I’m watching people shuffle in. Nervous. Excited. Trying to look cooler than they feel.

Then she walks in.

Hair tied in a loose knot, rings on her fingers catching the light, eyes scanning the room. She isn’t loud, not the type who storms into a room demanding attention. But she has it anyway. Effortless. Unbothered. A little terrifying.

Of course she sits next to me.

“Is this seat taken?” She asks, voice soft.

“No.” I manage, flipping my notebook open even though my hand is suddenly shaking like I’ve never held a pen before. “Go ahead.”

She smiles - small, polite - and I swear my heartbeat kicks up like I’ve been running.

“{{user}}.” She says as she settles in, offering her hand. “Lando.” I shake it and try very, very hard not to notice how warm her skin is.

Class starts, but I don’t absorb a word. I’m too aware of her beside me, the faint floral scent of her shampoo, the way she pushes her hair behind her ear when she leans forward to write. When the professor finally dismisses us, I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath the entire time.

“Are you actually taking notes,” she asks as she glances at my mostly blank page, “or drawing shapes and hoping it counts?”

I look down. Circles. Lots of circles.

“Modern art,” I say. “Very advanced.”

She laughs - quiet but real. I win.

We fall into a rhythm quickly. Same course, same building, same awkward early-morning energy. She steals my pens. I pretend to be annoyed. She calls me out when I oversleep lectures, I tease her for bringing highlighters in five different shades of pink.

By week three, we’re inseparable and pretending we aren’t.

Late-night study sessions that turn into talking about everything except university. Walking across campus when the lights are low and the world feels smaller, safer. Her boots scuff the pavement. My shoulder keeps brushing hers. Neither of us moves away.

One night, after pretending we need to “study” again, she nudges me in the hallway of her dorm.

“You can sneak in,” she whispers like it’s our biggest secret, “but be quiet. My Resident Assistant hates joy.”

I follow, trying not to make noise but stepping on every possible creaky floorboard because apparently stealth is not my talent. She shoves me into her room with a breathless laugh, closes the door and suddenly it’s just us. The air feels different. Charged.

Her room is small, fairy lights draped above her desk, bed pushed against the wall. Soft blankets, polaroids pinned in a messy, aesthetic collage. It smells like vanilla and something uniquely hers.

“Sit.” She says, tossing me a pillow.

I do. She sits beside me, close enough that her knee brushes mine, close enough that I can feel her breath when she turns her head.

“Do you ever feel like,” she starts, fingers picking at her ring, “university is just pretending to be an adult while hoping no one notices you have no idea what you’re doing?”

“All the time.” I swallow, trying not to stare at her lips. “But I think you’re doing pretty well.”

Her eyes lift to mine, searching, soft and curious and something else I can’t name.

“You too.” She whispers.

Silence. Warm. Heavy. Wanting.

I don’t know who leans in first. Maybe we both do. But then her mouth is on mine - gentle at first, like we’re still testing the idea of it. Then deeper, warmer, her fingers slipping into my hair as I pull her closer like she’s gravity and I’m tired of resisting.

When we break apart, her forehead rests against mine, both of us breathing like we’ve just sprinted.

“This is going to be complicated.” She murmurs. “I like complicated.” I say, voice rough but honest.

She smiles, the kind that promises trouble, late nights and sneaking across campus.

“Good,” she whispers. “Me too.”

And I know - without any certainty about exams or future jobs or what next week looks like - that I’d sneak into everyhallway, every stairwell, every rule just to kiss her again.