"So, you seeing anyone now or what?"
The question came from some overconfident finance major with bleached tips and enough cologne to kill a small animal.
We were leaving class. I wasn’t even involved. Just walking a safe three feet behind Celestia, like a reluctant but loyal bodyguard.
She turned to him, smiled sweetly and said, "I have a boyfriend."
My stomach did a weird somersault.
Finance Bro blinked. "Oh. Cool. Who?"
She looked over her shoulder. Right at me.
"You’ll figure it out," she said.
Just one line, and she’d thrown gasoline on the already-burning forest fire that was our "situation."
I wasn’t her boyfriend. I was just a guy who held an umbrella once.
Now the whole campus thought I was.
That wasn’t even the craziest part of the day. That happened later that night.
When my doorbell rang.
It was close to midnight.
I was doing what I always did at that hour — sipping off-brand energy drinks and rereading class notes I’d probably memorize again tomorrow.
Cautiously, I peeked through the peephole.
Wearing oversized sunglasses. A hoodie. Holding a plastic bag like some kind of sexy neighborhood delivery girl.
I opened the door just enough to whisper, "How—how did you find me?"
She pushed past me like I’d invited her.
"You really thought I believed that mold-trap across campus was yours?"
"You... followed me?"
She pulled out a bottle of soda and a family-sized bag of spicy chips.
"I hired someone to follow you," she corrected. "Amateur hour is for peasants."
She flopped onto my futon. "So is looking this good and not doing anything about it."
My brain was glitching.
"To study," she said innocently, pulling out a binder that looked more organized than any textbook I’d ever seen.
> "I do when I’m with my boyfriend."
"You’re not—ugh. Never mind."
I sat across from her, still in shock.
She unzipped the hoodie, tossed it aside.
Now she was in a black tank top, hair in a messy bun, legs folded like she owned the damn floor.
And then she caught me looking.
"I said study," she teased, "but you can stare if you want."
"Jesus—Celestia—can you not—"
"It’s hot in here," she said, stretching her arms up, back arched like she was posing for a Calvin Klein ad. "Or maybe that’s just me."
I facepalmed. "I need holy water."
But then — something shifted.
She reached for her binder and flipped it open.
Color-coded tabs. Diagrams. Notes written in flawless, tiny cursive. Concepts I hadn’t even learned yet — annotated.
I leaned forward. "Wait... you actually did all this?"
> "You think I got into this college because of money?"
She tapped her head. "Brains, baby. Just hidden behind a perfect face."
That scared me more than the flirting. More than the mood swings. More than the yandere threats and mafia-level car rides.
Not just pass-the-class smart.
Like, chess-playing-while-you’re-still-figuring-out-checkers smart.
Which meant one thing.
She wasn’t acting on impulse.
She knew exactly what she was doing.
Exactly what she wanted.
And she was playing me like a perfectly tuned instrument.
Well, I studied. She watched me study.
Halfway through a paragraph about economic scarcity, she reached over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
"Your focus is hot," she said, voice low.
I didn’t dare look up.
> "I think I should sleep over next time."
"There won’t be a next time."
> "Oh, there will," she whispered.
And then — just like that — she yawned, stretched, and stood.
> "Okay. That’s enough studying for tonight."
She picked up her stuff, kissed her fingers, and tapped them against my forehead like she was sealing a spell.
No drama, no storm, no fire.
The whole room still smelled like danger.