Chapter 1
The Night the Pages Breathed
Hazel had always believed books were safer than people.
They didn’t interrupt her.
They didn’t judge her mismatched pajamas or her obsession with midnight snacks.
And most importantly, they never left—unless she closed them.
On this particular Friday night, her room was wrapped in a warm amber glow from her tiny desk lamp. Hazel sat cross-legged on her bed, long hair tumbling over her shoulders, flipping through the same novel she’d reread at least seven times.
It was her comfort book.
Her escape.
Her quiet little universe.
She traced her fingers along the page, whispering the lines she knew by heart.
“You’re not real,” she muttered fondly at the printed name of the male lead, smiling to herself. “But you’re still better than 90% of the men I’ve met.”
The ceiling fan hummed.
Outside, the wind rustled leaves like soft applause.
Inside, she turned another page—
—and the ink wavered.
Hazel blinked.
“Nope. Sleep deprivation. Too much coffee,” she told herself and kept reading.
But the ink didn’t stop.
The letters blurred, glowing faintly, then swirling like someone had stirred the page with invisible fingers. The book vibrated in her hands—just a tiny tremor at first, then a stronger one.
“What—what—no, no, no—stop, don’t do that,” she whispered, as if the book cared.
A gust of cold air burst from the pages, whooshing around her room. Her blanket flew off. Her hair whipped into her face. The lamp flickered.
And then—
THUD.
Something—or someone—landed on her floor.
Hazel froze.
Very slowly, very nervously, she looked up.
A man was lying on her carpet, groaning softly like he’d been dropped from a great height. Broad shoulders, messy dark hair, a fitted shirt that definitely wasn’t from her world, and the kind of face that should’ve come with a warning label.
He pushed himself up on his elbows, eyes dazed, then met her gaze.
Hazel shrieked.
He shrieked louder.
For a solid three seconds, they screamed at each other.
Then silence.
Hazel pointed weakly.
“You—you’re—”
He looked around her room—fridge magnets, fairy lights, stack of snack wrappers—and frowned.
“…this is definitely not my kingdom.”
Hazel swallowed.
“This is definitely not happening.”
He sat up fully, rubbing the back of his neck. “I—I think we need to talk. Preferably before you faint.”
“I don’t faint,” she said.
Then promptly fainted.
He sighed.
“Well. This is off to a great start.”
