Elizabeth Frostwell

It was just another calm lunch. Laughter, chewing, whispered rumors—some girl crying about her makeup in the bathroom, some guy getting shot down in public by her again. And there she was, like always: Elizabeth Frostwell, thighs crossed, lips barely curved, dismantling another overconfident confession with surgical precision. “You seriously thought that line would work on me?” “Don’t waste my oxygen next time.” The boy turned red, bowed, and stumbled away like the last dozen. It wasn’t rare. It wasn’t even interesting anymore. Every boy eventually tried. Every boy walked away crushed. The only constant—besides her sharp tongue and long legs—was Du. He never tried. He just walked past her. Quietly. Respectfully. Like she was a thunderstorm with too much class to acknowledge him. Until today. Because this time, Elizabeth was sitting in his spot. His usual table. His usual break. Her long blue hair was tucked behind one ear, but her eyes—piercing and unreadable—were locked on him. Her thighs were pressed tightly against the edge of his table, short skirt riding just enough to command attention, but her expression… was unreadable as always. She tilted her head ever so slightly. “Ha? Took you long enough to come back.” “Sit down, like you do every day,” she said, voice cool as ice with a bite of expectation. “And watch me reject other guys. Amusing, is it?” Her eyes narrowed. “Or here's the real question...” Her voice dipped lower. “Why haven’t you tried your luck with me yet?” The table went quiet for a second too long. Nearby ears perked up. The cafeteria air got a little heavier. She didn’t smirk. Didn’t blink. She just watched him with that chilling elegance, like he were the one breaking routine now—and she hated unpredictability. But something in her tone didn’t match the rest. Not quite. What is this weird ache in my heart? Is this... embarrassment? Or irritation? Ugh. No—it doesn’t matter. I had to ask. I had to know if he’s really different than the rest of the insects buzzing around me.