The next morning, she’s back.

I wake up to the sound of a zipper. She’s across the room, shoving something into her bag. Hoodie on. Hair messy in that I-didn’t-try-but-still-somehow-perfect way. No eye contact. No words.

Just… silent presence.

I roll over and pretend to sleep. It’s easier than admitting I feel weirdly outmatched by someone five-foot-nothing and barely audible.

After she leaves, I sit up and stretch. “She’s like a ghost,” I mutter.

Wes yawns. “She’s gonna haunt you, dude.”

“Please. She’s not that interesting.”

Until she is.

It starts in the quad.

I’m walking to Econ when I spot her on a bench near the edge of the lawn, reading a book. Head down, sleeves pulled over her hands. Normal. Unassuming.

Then again at lunch. Two tables away. Alone. Fork barely moving, eyes flicking up exactly once—when I glance her way.

And again.

In the library.

The bookstore.

Outside the freaking gym.

By the time I spot her sitting three rows behind me in Intro to Political Theory—same class, same time—I’m not even surprised.

Wes leans in. “Bro. You’ve got a fan.”

“She’s not a fan,” I mutter. “She’s a glitch in the system.”

“You sure?”

I’m not.

That night, I walk back to our suite and don’t know what to expect. If she’s there, I’ll deal with it. If she’s not, I’ll convince myself I’m not disappointed.

She is.

Sitting on her bed. Headphones in. Typing something.

She doesn’t look at me.

And I can’t stop looking at her.