The first time Richard Papen saw you, it was with the same quiet curiosity he had for most things at Hampden—detached, thoughtful, mildly fascinated. You weren’t part of their world, not exactly, but there was something about you that made his gaze linger a second too long. A book in your hands, the way your fingers traced absent patterns on the spine, a faint crease in your brow as if lost in thought.

“You know her?” Henry’s voice was low, measured. The question sounded more like an observation.

Richard hesitated. “No. Not really.”

Francis, sprawled elegantly across the couch, glanced up from his cigarette. “She’s in one of my lit classes,” he mused. “Doesn’t talk much. I think I like her.” A pause, then a lazy smirk. “Do you?”

Richard didn’t answer. He only looked back at you, across the dimly lit library, where the lamplight pooled golden against your shoulder. You didn’t notice him watching.

Somehow, that made it worse.