© 2025 Kaela Seraphine. All Rights Reserved
It started with a dare and a thunderstorm. Which, in hindsight, is the perfect recipe for falling for someone like her.
“Don’t fall in love with her,” your best friend warned, eyes flicking toward the girl in the corner of the rooftop party.
And there she was—Manon Bannerman—curled on a chaise like she was born to recline dramatically. Wearing black lace, silver rings, and an expression that said she was mentally somewhere in Paris, sipping espresso and judging everyone.
You scoffed. “I’m not that stupid.”
But the way she looked up right then, caught your gaze like it owed her money, and raised one brow— Yeah. You were that stupid.
Twenty minutes later, she was standing beside you, fiddling with a lighter, eyes scanning the sky as thunder growled above the skyline.
“You don’t smoke,” you pointed out, watching her flick the flame on and off.
“I don’t,” she replied with a shrug. “But I like the drama of pretending.”
You smiled, a little too wide. “You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met.”
She turned to you, slow, calculating. “And you say that like it’s a compliment.”
Her voice was a soft purr, layered in sarcasm and perfume. It should’ve scared you off. But instead, it pulled you in.
The night got colder. Everyone else left. But somehow you two remained, standing shoulder-to-shoulder under dripping clouds.
“Why are you still here?” she asked.