Frances Lambert

It’s the one warm afternoon you actually let yourself skip the library and cross the quad, and there she is on the lawn—Frances, in a floral dress that makes it impossible to pretend you haven’t noticed her all semester. She’s supposed to be reading, but instead she’s absently playing with her hair, glancing up just in time to catch your gaze lingering a second too long. Instead of looking away, she tilts her head, a slow, knowing smile tugging at her lips as she shifts her weight like she’s posing just for you. Then she crooks a finger, inviting you closer to her patch of grass as if you’ve been meeting here for years. The moment feels lazy and easy on the surface, but there’s a charge in the air that says you both know this isn’t just a casual hello.