The university courtyard is so crowded today.People rushing to classes, sunlight glinting off glass windows, someone shouting about a forgotten project from the other side of the fountain. It's chaos — organized chaos — and I'm stuck in the middle of it.
My arms ache under the weight of the books I'm carrying. Six thick volumes, all borrowed from the main library, and somehow every single one of them feels like it weighs a ton.
"I'm so late," I mutter under my breath, trying to adjust my grip before the top book slides off. "If Mrs. Gomez finds out, she's going to—"
Thud.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry!"The books scatter across the pavement like a miniature avalanche. I drop to my knees, gathering the papers that fluttered loose. My hair falls in my face, my heart pounding from embarrassment. "What a day, huh—"
A low chuckle interrupts me. "No harm done."
That voice. Deep, smooth, a little amused.
When I look up, I almost forget how to breathe.
Lucien Beaumont stands in front of me — tall, effortlessly composed, the sun catching on his sharp features. His white shirt sleeves are rolled up, his tie loosened just enough to look rebellious instead of sloppy.
He looks like he stepped straight out of a magazine.
"I—uh—sorry again," I stammer, clutching a stack of books to my chest. I can practically feel my face turning red.
His lips curve slightly, that lazy kind of smile people either swoon over or want to slap off. "You always run people over, or am I just lucky?"
I blink, flustered. "Excuse me?"
"Nothing." His tone is teasing, almost bored. "You can go, Miss…?"
"Reyes," I say quickly, snatching the last book from the ground. "Anna Reyes."
He nods once, his gaze lingering a little longer than necessary. Then he turns away — smooth, calm, as if bumping into random girls in the courtyard is just part of his schedule.
And just like that, he walks off, leaving me kneeling on the ground, surrounded by my dignity and a stack of bruised textbooks.
"What was that?" I whisper to myself, shaking my head. "Rich people are weird."
By the time I reach the library, I'm five minutes late and mildly sweating. Mrs. Gomez, the head librarian, looks up from the front desk with that familiar judgmental squint.
"Miss Reyes," she says, tapping her watch.
"I know, I know. There was a… collision." I drop the books onto the counter, trying to catch my breath.
Her brows lift. "Collision?"
"With a human. It was mutual," I say quickly, then regret my choice of words when she just stares at me.
"Just… don't drop anything fragile," she mutters finally.
"Yes, ma'am," I say, smiling sheepishly before ducking behind the circulation desk.
The rest of the shift passes quietly. I lose myself in shelving books, stamping due dates, and helping freshmen who somehow don't know how to use the catalog system. It's repetitive but peaceful — the kind of peace I need to survive college.
—
At six, I grab my backpack and head out. The air smells like rain even though the sky is clear. Campus always feels different in the evening — quieter, softer, like the buildings themselves are finally exhaling after a long day.
I stop by the vending machine outside the library and dig for coins. Of course, I'm short by one peso.
"Perfect," I mumble. "Starving and broke."
Before I can walk away, someone slides a coin into the slot beside me. "Try now."
I freeze.Tsk—that voice again. And my heart's beating rapidly…again.
When I look up, Lucien Beaumont is leaning casually against the wall, hands in his pockets, looking like he owns the place. Which, knowing his family, he practically does.
"You—" I start, then stop myself. "You followed me?"
He tilts his head. "Or maybe you just have terrible timing."
"Right," I mutter, pressing the button for iced coffee. "Thanks for the coin."
"You're welcome, Miss Reyes."
I grab the drink and turn to leave, but he speaks again.
"You work at the library?" he asks.
I hesitate. "Yeah. Scholarship students are required to have campus jobs."
"Scholarship," he repeats, as if tasting the word. "So you're the top student everyone keeps talking about."
I narrow my eyes. "Everyone?"
He shrugs, smiling faintly. "You're famous, you know. The genius from the low-income program."
I bristle. "That's… not exactly a compliment."
"Didn't mean it as an insult," he says easily. "I actually admire it. You must work harder than most of us."
I blink. I wasn't expecting that.
"Well," I mumble, unsure how to respond, "thank you, I guess."
He steps closer, close enough that I catch the faint scent of cedar and soap. "You're welcome. And for the record—" His voice lowers. "You run into people very gracefully."
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. By the time I think of something to say, he's already walking away again, hands in his pockets, like he didn't just make my brain short-circuit.
"Unbelievable," I whisper, staring after him. "Who talks like that?"
"and, why is he talking to me?" i ask myself.