He’s The Campus Sun But Only A Monster For Me Chapter 06

He’s The Campus Sun But Only A Monster For Me Chapter 06

I knew exactly how big the gap was between Lucas Gray and me.

It wasn’t new. It had been staring me in the face my whole life.

He was bright. I was ordinary.

He was everyone’s sun. I was a weed in the corner.

But what did that matter?

I didn’t want more.

I just wanted to stand where he could see me, and see him.

That was enough.

Grandma said liking someone was your own business.

You didn’t need a response. Didn’t need an ending.

Loving someone quietly was beautiful enough.

I believed that.

Mia probably thought I was being foolish.

She texted again:

*Beatrice, there’s a party next Friday.

Literature and journalism majors are hosting it.

Wanna come? Meet new people.

You said you wanted to be a little more outgoing in college.*

I hesitated.

College was halfway over, and I was still the same quiet Beatrice.

Not that there was anything wrong with it. It was just a habit.

But they said you could get used to a life, but not let it trap you.

Okay, I replied.

Friday came fast.

The party was at a bar off-campus, private room.

Warm yellow lights, wooden tables, faint fruit wine in the air.

Mia did light makeup on me, pinned my bangs back with gel,

dressed me in a creamy white dress.

I looked in the mirror, unfamiliar but not uncomfortable.

“See? You’re not plain. You just don’t try,” Mia said, circling me.

“Your eyes are insane-big, bright, glowing with makeup like little light bulbs.

I sent Lucas a full-body photo, asking: Does this look okay?

It was one of the few times I reached out first.

He replied instantly: Where are you going?

I told him the truth: A class party.

This time, he didn’t reply right away.

I stared at the “typing” indicator for ages.

Finally, one word:

Oh.

Oh.

It wasn’t like him.

He usually sent long texts, emojis,

said *You look so pretty*, *Don’t go*.

But none of that. Just a dry, cold *Oh*.

I didn’t overthink it. I put my phone in my bag.

The party was relaxed.

People chatted in small groups.

Mia quickly started talking to people nearby.

I tried talking to a glasses-wearing boy next to me about plants and books.

Turned out he loved Haruki Murakami too.

I relaxed a little.

We were talking about that line from *Norwegian Wood*—

Death is not the opposite of life, but a part of it.

The bar door slammed open.

Night wind and street noise rushed in.

Someone stepped inside.

Lucas Gray.

He wore a black lightweight jacket, white tee, dark gray casual pants.

Clean, sharp.

His hair was a little longer, bangs covering his eyebrows,

less bright than usual, more distant, careless.

But he was still impossibly beautiful.

The mood shifted.

Like a predator had silently stepped into its territory.

The noise in the bar dropped noticeably.

His gaze swept the room, searching.

I held a mojito, mint and rum bitter-sweet on my tongue.

When I saw him, my mind went blank for two seconds.

Then, almost instinctively, I smiled-not surprised, not excited, just calm.

He strode toward me, fast and steady, jacket flaring slightly.

Lucas stopped in front of me, no small talk.

He pulled me out of my chair, wrapped his arm around my shoulders like he owned me.

“Why are you here?” I looked up, confused.

“Heard you were here.”

He said it loud enough for everyone to hear.

Then he leaned down, whispering only in my ear:

I missed you.

His breath tickled my ear. I turned my head slightly, but his arm tightened, like he was scared I’d run.

Long time no see.

I knew people would ask. To avoid dragging him into it, I pretended we were just high school classmates, voice flat, unemotional.

His fingers on my shoulder tensed.

Whispers broke out around us.

Lucas’s friends-other finance guys-leaned over, casual:

“Gray, who’s this? You know her?”

Lucas opened his mouth, but I spoke first.

“High school friends,” I said.

I didn’t know why I rushed to say it.

Maybe to save him the trouble.

Maybe to avoid his friends staring between us.

Maybe…

Maybe I didn’t want anyone to think we were more than ordinary friends.

Because I didn’t deserve that.

Because everyone in the room, including me, could see how mismatched we were.

Lucas didn’t speak.

I felt his hand on my shoulder stiffen for a split second-so fast it barely existed.

Then he let go, hand falling naturally to his side.

His friends teased:

“Whoa, Gray, you knew a girl this pretty in high school?

You’re good, keeping secrets!”

I froze. I knew it was just polite talk.

Social words, nothing more.

Lucas didn’t join in. He just smiled, that familiar smile with his little tooth,

the same one he gave me-but also completely different.

I looked down, sipping my mojito.

Mint cooled my mouth, covering the warm burn of alcohol.

Mia stared at us from the side, eyes wide,

pinching my thigh hard under the table. I gasped quietly.

I stared at her, confused.

Later, I’d realize how strange Lucas was that night.

He hated Long Island iced tea, but he ordered one.

He kept pushing drinks on me, barely touching his own.

His fingers rubbed together nonstop, knuckles white, like he was crushing something.

His eyes looked at me with a dark, heavy glow I’d never seen-like he wanted to pull me into mud.

But I thought he was just tired.

I thought that night was a dream.

ご

What happened after was a dream too.

The party ended around ten.

I’d drunk a lot-not anyone else’s fault, Lucas’s.

He kept pushing glasses at me, saying *We haven’t seen each other in forever, drink with me*,

This one’s good, *Just one last sip*.

His tone was so natural I didn’t suspect a thing.

I drank cup after cup.

The world blurred, my mind foggy, body light like stepping on cotton candy.

My last memory was Lucas taking my bag, saying something to Mia.

One arm wrapped around my waist, the other supporting my head, pressing my face into his chest.

His heartbeat thundered through his shirt-fast, fast, fast.

I giggled, slurring: “Lucas, your heart’s beating so fast.”

He didn’t answer. Just held me tighter.

I could smell his clean detergent, faint cologne, his warm, clean scent.

I don’t remember much after.

Vaguely, I was carried into a room.

Elevator lift, door unlocking, soft blankets wrapping around me.

Water sounds, distant, like waves hitting rocks.

Then something warm landed on my forehead.

Wet, soft, burning hot.

Lips.

I recognized the feeling in my foggy mind, thinking it was just a vivid, crazy dream.

Those lips moved down to my brow, my nose, my cheek,

careful, like tracing something precious.

Then they landed on my lips.

Not a light peck.

Warm, heavy, memorizing every inch.

I heard a sigh, low, broken, squeezed from deep in his chest.

“I love you…”

It was Lucas’s voice.

“I love you, love you, love you…

He repeated it over and over, like a broken recorder,

like a drowning man clinging to his last float.

His lips moved to my jaw, my neck, stopping at the small spot above my collarbone,

biting gently, like a puppy marking its owner.

I thought, half-asleep: This must be a dream.

Because Lucas Gray would never say that.

He’d never speak like that, kiss me like that, hold me and whisper I love you in the dark.

It had to be a dream.

Then I fell into a deeper sleep.

Then those eyes landed on me.

I woke up the next morning to sunlight through a partly open curtain,

painting warm orange on the white sheets.

I blinked, realizing I was in an unfamiliar bed, dark gray covers.

I breathed in-smelled like Lucas.

My brain took three seconds to process: Where am I? What happened?

My heart raced.

Just then, the door opened.

Lucas walked in with a glass of warm water, smiling bright when he saw me awake.

He wore an oversized white tee, messy bedhead,

but that little tooth was blindingly cute in the morning light.

“Morning, sleepyhead.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, brushed messy hair off my face, gentle and natural.

“You drank so much last night. I had such a hard time getting you home.”

His fingers were warm, softly brushing my cheek like petting a sleepy cat.

“Last night…” My voice was hoarse.

“Hmm?” He tilted his head, innocent.

I stared into his eyes for two seconds.

Clear, bright, unashamed, reflecting my messy face.

“Nothing,” I said.

“You were talking in your sleep, you know?” He suddenly laughed, eyes crinkling, tooth peeking out.

“What did I say?” My heart jumped.

“You said, ‘Lucas, stop stealing my blanket,”” he laughed, morning roughness in his voice.

“You were fighting me for blankets in your dream.”

I stared at his smile.

The blurry touches and whispers from last night slowly faded, like waves retreating into the ocean.

It was just a dream, I thought.

Lucas would never do that to me.

He pinched my cheek, then his smile softened, serious.

“Beatrice,” he said, voice gentle.

“Why don’t you move in with me?

You don’t sleep well in the dorm anyway.

I have an extra room.

No one to take care of you if you get drunk.

And…”

“And what?”

“I’m lonely living alone.” He smiled, something hidden under the sweet curve I couldn’t read.

“Just… keep me company?”

I looked at him. He looked back.

Sunlight wrapped around him, gilding his edges, warm and bright,

like a perfect, untainted sun.

I finally said yes.

On moving day, I stood at the guest room window,

saw the small hill behind campus, covered in plum blossoms that bloomed white in winter.

Lucas stood in the doorway, watching me unpack my books.

He suddenly stepped up and hugged me from behind.

Arms wrapped around my waist, chin on my shoulder, like a clingy big dog.

“Do you regret it?” he mumbled.

“Regret what?”

“Moving in with me.”

I turned my head slightly. He looked strange-not his usual cheerful smile,

but careful, tentative, serious.

“Why would I regret it?” I said, going back to unpacking.

“We’ve known each other forever.’

He laughed quietly into my shoulder, tightening his hold.

After a few seconds, he let go, stepped back, clapped his hands, casual.

“Finish unpacking. I’ll go get stuff. What do you want for dinner?”

“Anything’s fine.”

“Then anything it is.”

He left. I heard the door close, the elevator ding.

The room went quiet, only wind in the leaves outside.

I squatted, sorting my books,

when I found something that wasn’t mine.

A black hardcover notebook, A5, no writing on the cover,

just a tiny gold-foil butterfly in the corner.

It wasn’t mine.

I flipped it open. Under the cover, silver pen handwriting:

Beatrice, don’t look.

I froze, then smiled.

That guy, buying a new notebook and writing my name and a warning.

Scared I’d snoop through his stuff.

Please. I wasn’t like that.

I set it aside to return later.

But I didn’t open it.

Grandma said respecting privacy was basic respect.

I believed that.

So even though curiosity nipped at me like a kitten,

I set the notebook on the rug outside his door, waiting for him to pick it up.

I’d think back a million times and wonder:

If I’d opened it that day, would things have been different?

Probably not.

Everything was already decided the day we were six.