Kai Ashford's POV
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I know the exact sound of her laugh.
Not just one version of it—no, that would be too simple. I know the unfiltered, full-volume cackle when she's with her best friend. The bubbly little chuckle she tries to hide behind her hand when a professor makes a bad pun. The softer one, the one she lets out when she's nervous but doesn't want anyone to notice.
I shouldn't know that.
I shouldn't notice that she always wears something blue. Sometimes it's her earrings. Sometimes the butterfly clip that's holding back three feet of her absurd hair. Sometimes her socks. I shouldn't be looking long enough to catch those details. I shouldn't care.
And yet.
Today, she sat two seats away from me.
It's not like she didn't try to sit beside me. She did. The girl tripped, stumbled, knocked over her iced coffee, apologized to six people, and nearly pulled a muscle waving at someone across the room—before she plopped down two inches from my desk like she belonged there.
And she smiled at me. Like always.
That too-bright, too-sincere, annoyingly gorgeous smile that makes me want to scream and kiss her at the same time.
I ignored her, obviously. Or I tried to.
But she leaned toward me, whispering that she forgot her pen, and handed me a glittery blue one to use for myself. "You'll look great writing death threats in this," she said, grinning.
I took it.
I don't know why.
It's still in my pocket. Even now.
And I am so utterly, pathetically screwed.
Because I don't just know her laugh now.
I know the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles. The way she tugs her braid over her shoulder when she's thinking. The way she taps her foot when she's nervous, the way she keeps all her notes color-coded, the way she offers the last bite of her snack to literally anyone around her, even the guy who once made fun of her heels.
I noticed that she wasn't wearing any bows today.
Or heels.
Just this oversized white shirt and ripped jeans and her hair in a heavy braid. And still—still—every single person turned to stare when she walked in.
Including me.
Especially me.
And when some idiot made a joke about her talking too much, she just laughed and threw back a "thanks for noticing!" like she didn't hear the cruelty behind it.
But I did.
And I swear—if anyone else ever looks at her like she's too much, I will burn this university to the ground.
Because maybe she is too much.
Too loud. Too bright. Too soft for this world.
And maybe I'm the last person who should care.
But I do.
God help me, I do.