Siena Vale
Okay. In theory, this was a flawless plan.
Slip into school unnoticed. Grab my lip gloss from the ballroom piano. Walk out like a queen.
What I hadn't accounted for was the dark.
Not, like, "ooh, it's nighttime" dark. But the boarding school after hours kind. Where the lights flicker for no reason and every shadow looks like it's planning your murder.
I hug my blazer tighter around me as I creep down the hallway, heels clicking against the tile. Stupid heels. Stupid hallway. Stupid glossy temptation in "Champagne Bite" by Fenty.
The lights above the trophy case flicker. Once. Twice.
I pause.
…Is that a whisper?
I spin around.
Nothing.
No one.
Just rows of empty classrooms and a creepy bust of our founder glaring at me like I owe him money.
I swallow.
"This is fine," I mutter. "Totally normal. I'm brave. I've seen The Conjuring like five times."
Another whisper. This one closer.
I speed-walk.
My heart's pounding now. My palms are sweaty. Every inch of me is on edge, like I'm in one of those horror movies where the girl says "Hello?" like the killer's going to answer politely.
I reach the ballroom doors and push them open fast—
CRASH.
Something moves in the corner.
I freeze.
A chair falls over.
Nope. No no no—
"WHOEVER'S IN HERE, I HAVE PEPPER SPRAY AND A LAWYER!" I scream into the dark.
"Siena?"
I whip around.
And shriek.
Like, full-volume, horror-movie, my-soul-just-left-my-body scream.
Because standing behind me, bathed in low hallway light like some elegant cryptid, is Alec freaking Grayson.
Hands in his pockets. Face unreadable. And wearing the calm expression of someone who was very much not just screamed at like a banshee.
"Jesus Christ!" I gasp, stumbling back. "What are you—why would you—how long have you been standing there?!"
He blinks. "Thirty seconds."
"Thirty—!?" I cover my face, dragging my hands down dramatically. "You nearly killed me. You can't just... lurk in the dark like that!"
"I said your name," he replies, perfectly chill. "You screamed before I got to the second syllable."
I glare at him, cheeks burning. "Because you SCARED me."
Another flicker of light behind him.
I flinch. Instinctively step closer.
He notices.
"What are you even doing here?" I mumble, desperate to regain composure. "Don't tell me you live in the boiler room like some student-council Phantom of the Opera."
"I left some reports. I came back to get them." He pauses. "You?"
"…My lip gloss."
A beat.
He actually raises an eyebrow this time. "At 9 p.m."
"It's a really good gloss."
The silence stretches.
Another whisper of wind.
I inch closer again. Not because I'm scared. Just… cautious.
He exhales, almost imperceptibly.
"You're scared of the dark," he says, not unkindly.
"I'm not scared," I snap.
He gestures around. "You're standing directly in the emergency light beam."
I look down.
I am.
I huff and cross my arms. "It's not the dark. It's the ghosts."
He doesn't laugh.
But something in his mouth almost twitches.
"C'mon," he says finally. "I'll walk you out."
I hesitate.
Then fall in step beside him.
And as we walk back through the dim hallways, barely speaking, just the echo of our footsteps between us, I don't even mind that I left the stupid lip gloss behind again.
Alec Grayson
The school is quieter after hours. Still. Predictable.
The council files I needed were on the piano bench in the ballroom — left behind during the chaos of Founder's Day planning. I told myself I'd just slip in, grab them, and leave. No distractions.
And yet I found myself standing outside the ballroom, unmoving, for a solid three minutes.
Listening.
There were footsteps echoing down the hall. Light. Definitely heels.
She always wore heels. Even when she didn't have to.
I leaned back against the cold stone wall, arms crossed, waiting.
She turned the corner a minute later. Hair loose. Lips slightly parted. Blazer too expensive for a school uniform and steps too loud for someone trying not to be caught.
Siena Vale.
Of course.
She looked around like the building was breathing.
She was scared.
She wouldn't admit it, not even under oath. But I could tell from the way her hands kept brushing her thighs. From how she flinched every time a light flickered.
I could've said something right then.
I didn't.
I watched her push open the ballroom door and vanish inside, muttering something about gloss and ghosts and The Conjuring. Her voice echoed down the marble.
I waited.
Then she screamed.
Full-body, blood-curdling, five-star horror movie scream.
I moved fast. Stepped in through the side door and said her name.
"Siena?"
She spun, saw me—
And screamed again.
She actually screamed louder the second time.
I didn't flinch. Just… stood there.
Watching her face go from terrified to furious in 0.2 seconds.
"What are you—why would you—how long have you been standing there?!" she snapped.
"Thirty seconds," I said, deadpan.
Because anything else would've been… not me.
And not the truth.
She kept ranting, cheeks flushed, hands flying, and I couldn't help noticing — beneath the dramatics and sparkly gloss and designer blazer — she was shaking.
Afraid.
But not just of ghosts.
Of being seen afraid.
I shouldn't have stayed.
Should've handed her the damn lip gloss and walked out.
Instead, I stood there and listened to her babble about haunted halls and emergency lights and council phantoms and something about Fenty gloss and her soul leaving her body.
She called me the Phantom of the Opera.
I almost smiled.
Almost.
Eventually, I told her I'd walk her out.
She didn't argue.
And as we walked — our shadows stretched long behind us, her perfume trailing faintly in the air — I wondered how someone could be so loud and still make the silence feel less suffocating.
She said nothing the whole way to the gate.
Neither did I.
But when we reached it, and I unlocked it for her, and she brushed past with a mumbled thanks, I didn't go back in right away.
I stood there.
Hands in pockets.
Staring after her.
Lip gloss, midnight, and ghosts.
What the hell was she doing in my head?