Sebastian Ashford's POV
I was early, as always.
The lecture hall was almost empty—quiet, orderly, predictable. Just the way I liked it.
Until I saw her.
Ray Lin.
Sitting in my seat.
Correction: sprawled across my seat like she was queen of the damn university. She had two pastries on the desk, a glittery pink pencil pouch unzipped like it was about to explode, and she was deep in conversation with the janitor like they'd been best friends since 1973.
"—and then Ava said, 'Ray, if you run on three hours of sleep again I'm gonna physically duct-tape you to the bed.' Isn't that so dramatic?" she chirped, laughing like this was a morning brunch and not a place of higher education.
I cleared my throat.
She looked up, bright-eyed. "Oh! Hi!"
I nodded to the seat. "You're in mine."
She tilted her head. "Am I?" She looked down at the chair like it had betrayed her. "Ohhh. Wow. Sorry. I thought seating was, like, a suggestion?"
I didn't answer. Just stared.
She stared back.
Then—grinned.
"I've got a spare croissant?" She picked up the pastry with both hands and held it out solemnly, like a peace offering. "Fresh. Flaky. Probably magic."
I said nothing.
She placed the croissant on the desk anyway, folded neatly in a pink napkin with little hand-drawn daisies. "Too bad. I already bonded with it emotionally. It deserves a good home."
I didn't move.
She hummed to herself and slid into the seat beside me—right between me and Austin, like she had any clue what invisible lines she was crossing.
And then it happened.
Her hair.
That endless, ink-black curtain of hers swayed as she dropped into the chair and turned to grab something from her bag. A thick strand of it swept over my shoulder—onto my shoulder—and I flinched like someone had poured liquid sunshine on me.
Soft. Heavy. Smelled like... strawberries?
I looked down. Her hair was on me.
I looked at her. She hadn't noticed. Or worse, she had—and didn't care.
I gritted my teeth and angled away. But the smell lingered. And so did she.
"Ava's sick today," Ray said brightly, pulling out her sparkly pouch like we were in an arts and crafts class. "She had a fever last night. Probably from that cursed hotdog."
Austin gave her a lazy grin. "So you decided to bring your chaos to us?"
"Yup," she said cheerfully, as if that was the most reasonable explanation in the world. "And hey—I didn't know you guys were in this class too! What are the odds?"
"Pretty high," Austin muttered. "Since you're in this class."
She laughed. "Still! I feel like fate's doing me a solid."
She leaned forward to dig out a highlighter, and her hair swept forward again—brushing my sleeve this time, tickling the edge of my hand.
I clenched my jaw and tried to focus on the whiteboard. Not on her. Not on the croissant. Not on the way she kept invading my personal space like she owned oxygen.
And then—
"So, Seb—"
"Don't." I didn't even look at her.
She blinked at me. "Okay, okay. Sebastian. Geez. Someone's touchy in the morning."
Her tone was light, playful. Unaware. Untouchable.
Her hair was still touching my arm.
And no one called me Seb.
Until her.
Her tone was light, playful. Unaware. Untouchable.
Her hair was still touching my arm.
And no one called me Seb.
Not my professors. Not my so-called friends. Not even Austin, and he'd known me since we were kids. Sebastian Ashford didn't get nicknames. He gave them.
And yet this girl—this infuriating, sweet-smelling whirlwind with glitter pens and napkins covered in daisies—had just called me Seb like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Like I wasn't someone people avoided in hallways. Like I wasn't someone they whispered about behind screens and bitten lips.
She said it like it meant nothing.
And for some reason… that pissed me off more than if it had meant everything.