Chapter 1

Alicia’s POV

The library smelled normal, like old paper and new fine prints too, the kind of place that always felt safer than the real world.

I tucked myself deeper into the corner carrel on the third floor, my legs folded under me on the hard wooden chair, a paperback cracked open on my lap. The cover was worn soft from too many hands, but I can’t blame no one, because it had a lovable MMC—dark-haired hero, shadowed eyes, the kind of man who promised ruin and redemption in the same breath. My thumb traced the embossed title absently.

Another book boyfriend meant another safe fantasy. Right?

It’s been three years, and I still couldn’t shake him.

Not the face—not exactly, because I’d never seen it in daylight. Not the name I never learned. Just the feel of him, the way his fingers had known exactly where to press, the low growl of “good girl” against my throat, the stretch and burn and feel of him twitching inside me until I couldn’t tell where I ended and he began.

Every man since had been measured against that night and found lacking.

I closed the book with a soft snap, and pressed my thighs together under the table. The ache was familiar now—low, persistent, like a bruise that never quite healed. I told myself it was just nostalgia. A perfect, contained memory. Nothing more.

My phone buzzed against the wood.

Mirabel: Where are you hiding? Lecture ended 20 min ago. I’m starving. Coffee shop in 10?

I smiled despite myself. Mirabel Connell—bright, loud, and relentlessly optimistic—was the only person who could pull me out of my head when I started spiraling into fictional men.

She didn’t know about the stranger from three years ago, no one did. It was my secret shame and my secret comfort, locked away like a dirty bookmark.

I typed back: On my way. Save me a seat by the window.

I shoved the book into my tote bag , stood, and stretched. My reflection caught in the tall window—blonde hair in a messy bun, freckles across my nose and cheeks, lips still pouty from biting them while reading. Twenty-five now, and sophomore year stretching ahead like it might never end.

Curvier than I used to be, and softer in places that made men stare a second too long.

I wondered, not for the first time, if he’d even recognize me if we passed on the street.

Probably not. And it was probably for the best.

Downstairs, the autumn air bit sharp through my thin sweater. Campus was alive with the usual chaos—students laughing too loud, leaves crunching under boots, someone blasting music from a dorm window.

I cut across the quad toward the coffee shop, head down, replaying the last scene of the book in my mind.

The hero had finally pinned the heroine to the wall, whispered filthy promises, and fucked her until she forgot her own name.

My steps faltered, and heat crawled up my neck again.

God. I needed to stop.

Mirabel was already at our usual table when I pushed through the door—her long dark hair spilling over her shoulders, skin the same warm tone as the photos of her mother she kept on her phone, eyes bright with whatever gossip she’d collected since lunch.

She waved me over like I might miss her in the tiny shop.

“You’re late,” she accused, sliding a paper cup toward me. “Latte, extra cinnamon. You looked like you needed comfort carbs.”

I dropped into the chair, and wrapped my hands around the warmth. “You’re a saint.”

“I’m a best friend. There’s a difference.” She leaned forward, elbows on the table, her grin wicked. “So. Tell me you finally texted that guy from econ.”

I groaned. “Chris? No. And I’m not going to.”

“He’s cute, and somewhat persistent. But he had the rich-dad energy without the actual rich dad.”

“He’s also clingy and won’t take no for an answer.” I took a sip, let the cinnamon settle on my tongue. “I told him I’m not looking for anything serious.”

Mirabel rolled her eyes. “You’re never looking for anything serious. You’re looking for a fictional man with perfect dialogue and a ten-inch—”

“Mirabel!”

She laughed, loud enough that the barista glanced over. “What? I’m right. You read those books like they’re oxygen.”

“They’re better than reality,” I muttered.

She softened a little, reached across to squeeze my wrist. “You deserve real, babe. Someone who looks at you like you hung the moon. Not just… fictional abs.”

I forced a smile. “Maybe one day.”

She studied me for a second—too perceptive, sometimes—then let it drop. “Anyway. Holiday break’s coming up soon, and my Dad’s insisting I come home for the full two weeks. He said he misses me, which is code for ‘I want to make sure you’re not living off ramen and bad decisions.’”

I laughed. “He sounds like a good dad.”

“He is. The best.” Her expression flickered into something softer, almost wistful. “He’s been… quieter lately. I don’t know. Work stuff, probably. Or just the usual. You know he never really got over Mom.”

I nodded. She didn’t talk about her mother’s death often, but when she did, it carried weight—like a stone dropped into still water. Mirabel had never known her, only stories and photos and the quiet grief that still lived in their house. It made her cling to her father in ways I sometimes envied, and sometimes worried about.

“You should come with me,” she said suddenly.

I blinked. “To your house?”

“Yeah, for the break. Our house is huge, there’s a pool, a library that’ll make you drool, and he always over-caters. You’d be doing me a favor—keeping me from going stir-crazy alone with him and his brooding CEO vibes.”

I hesitated. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding, you’re my person. And honestly? I think Dad would like having someone else around. He gets weird when it’s just us—starts trying to talk about feelings and then changes the subject to stock prices.”

I laughed again, softer this time. The idea was tempting. A break from campus, from Chris, from school books, and from the endless loop of my own head.

“Okay,” I said. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” She beamed, already pulling out her phone. “I’ll text him now. He’ll be thrilled. Or at least he’ll pretend to be thrilled in that stoic billionaire way of his.”

She typed quickly, hit send, then looked up with a grin. “Done. Welcome to the holiday invasion, babe.”

I smiled back, my heart doing something strange in my chest—half excitement, half nerves I couldn’t name.

“It’s just a holiday.” I repeated to myself.