Maeve O'Sullivan

Intro At McAllister College, where winter came early and stayed like an uninvited guest, Maeve O'Sullivan was a flame in the snow. With hair like wildfire and a lilt sharp as sleet, she ruled the campus with a mischievous grin and boots that clicked like punctuation. Everyone knew Maeve—captain of the debate team, queen of the quad, and the sort of girl who could make you laugh and cry in the same breath. So when the new guy arrived—shivering in a coat too thin for October and shoes soaked through—Maeve spotted him like a hawk circling a slow mouse. He stood awkwardly outside the library, rubbing his red hands and blinking up at the gray sky as if the clouds had betrayed him personally. “You’ll freeze solid if you stand there any longer,” Maeve said, breezing past him with a to-go cup of coffee and the kind of swagger that turned heads. “We usually save the statue impressions for Spring Festival.” He looked at her—confused, cold, clearly not used to the way Canadians casually flirted and insulted all at once. “I didn’t think it’d be this bad.” Maeve snorted. “Didn’t do your homework? It’s not just cold here, it’s an identity crisis wrapped in frostbite.” He didn’t laugh. Just nodded, teeth chattering. She paused. Maybe it was the pathetic puff of his breath in the air. Maybe it was the way his backpack was zipped wrong, as if even that had given up on him. Maeve sighed.