Sebastian's POV
The library at night was peaceful. Too peaceful.
Most students cleared out by ten. The smart ones, the talkative ones, the ones pretending to be smart—all gone. Only the desperate stayed. And then, there was me. I wasn't desperate. I just didn't like people. And the library after hours was quiet—finally.
Until it wasn't.
I stepped into the corridor, the faint buzz of the old ceiling light flickering like it had a personal vendetta against silence. The rest of the university building was dark, cold. Only that damn light by the staircase kept flashing like it was warning someone—maybe me.
Whatever. I wasn't in the mood for theatrics. I adjusted the strap of my bag and made my way to the stairs.
That's when I heard it.
Sniff.
A pause.
Then a choked-out whisper, half-prayer, half-plea:
"Please don't kill me, I'm too pretty to die. I haven't even kissed anyone properly—"
I froze.
No.
There was no way.
I stepped cautiously forward, peeked down the staircase, and—of course. Of course it was her.
Ray Lin.
Curled up at the bottom of the staircase like a lost kitten, hands clutching her knees, her glittery pencil pouch by her side like a personal sidekick. Her phone's flashlight was propped against the wall, casting weird shadows across the tiles.
Her head shot up the moment she saw me. Big teary eyes. Sniffling. And then—she charged.
"Sebastian!" she shrieked.
Before I could say a word, she threw herself into my chest, her arms wrapping tight around my torso. Her face pressed into the crook of my neck like this was some Nicholas Sparks movie and I was her soldier home from war.
I stumbled back.
"I was so scared," she wailed into my shirt, still clinging like her life depended on it. "The light was flickering, and the shadows were moving, and I SWEAR I heard footsteps, and there was a weird whispering noise—like whooooosh—and I think something touched my leg, and I came back only because I dropped my lip gloss, and oh god I thought I was gonna DIE and—wait, you smell nice, is that cinnamon? Did you eat that cookie from the café earlier? Because I had the blueberry muffin, but I wanted the cinnamon one, but Ava said I'd regret the sugar and she was right, and now I'm not only haunted, I'm muffin-regret-haunted—"
"Ray." I cut her off.
She looked up at me, wide-eyed, still attached to me like a very clingy backpack.
"You can let go now," I said, dryly.
She blinked. "No."
"What do you mean no?"
"I'm scared," she whispered. "What if the ghost grabs me when I let go? What if it's behind me RIGHT NOW?"
"There is no ghost," I muttered, deadpan.
"That's exactly what they say in horror movies," she argued, arms somehow tightening.
God.
I should've just kept walking.
"You're not about to camp out on me like a human scarf."
"But you're warm." She sniffled again, nuzzling into my hoodie like she paid rent there. "And you came to rescue me. Like… like a literal prince. With tattoos."
I gave her a look. "I'm not your prince."
"Whatever," she said, burying her face back in my chest. "You are tonight."
I groaned. This girl was going to be the end of me.
"I'm going to help you get your stupid lip gloss, and then I'm walking you out," I said. "So let's go."
She peeked up at me, tear-stained cheeks and hair in her mouth. "Can I still hold your arm while we walk?"
"No."
"I'm going to anyway."
Of course she was.
We made our way back into the library together, her clinging to my sleeve the entire time like some haunted heroine, her whispers full of theories about ghosts, murderers, cursed makeup, and flickering lights that were definitely haunted. At one point, she gasped so loudly I nearly pulled my hoodie off—only for her to say: "Oh! There it is! My lip gloss! Thank god, I thought the ghost took it!"
She picked it up like it was Excalibur.
Then looked at me with a bright, tear-damp grin.
"You're really nice under all that grumpy face, you know."
"I'm really not."
"You are," she sang, happily. "Thanks, Seb."
I froze.
"Don't call me that," I said sharply.
"What? Seb?" she said again—again!—like she didn't just throw a grenade in my brain.
No one calls me that. No one dares. My name is Sebastian Ashford, and people say it like they're afraid it'll burn their tongues.
But she?
She just tossed it out like it was casual. Like we were friends. Like she hadn't nearly ghost-hugged me into cardiac arrest.
"Only Austin calls me that."
"Well now I do too," she chirped.
And with that, she skipped beside me all the way down the hallway, lip gloss in hand, ghost apparently forgotten.
I sighed.
This was going to be a long semester.