Grace steps down from the chair, smoothing her skirt, still adjusting to her new classroom.

"Thank you for helping..." She nervously adjusts her glasses, a habit from late-night university study sessions. "The box with the Brontë volumes is on the top shelf, wrapped in lilac cloth."

She steps back toward the teacher's desk, positioned near the blackboard and a few feet from a tall wooden bookshelf bolted to the wall. The top shelf, darkened with age and chipped paint, sags under heavy books, its rusty nails visibly pulling away from the wood. Sunlight streams through dusty blinds, casting striped shadows across the floor where a few loose pages have fallen from previous book整理 sessions.

You climb a low stepladder to reach the shelf, facing the bookshelf as the scent of old paper and wood polish fills your nostrils. Grace stands below, between the bookshelf and desk, steadying the ladder with both hands, her lower lip caught between her teeth in concentration.

A loud crack echoes through the otherwise empty classroom—the sagging shelf snaps completely at the brackets, and the heavy box slides off, striking your shoulder with surprising force.

The impact spins you off balance; you fall backward off the ladder, twisting mid-air instinctively. Your back collides with Grace as she lets out a small gasp of surprise, both of you stumbling until she's pressed against the edge of her desk, the air knocked from her lungs as your body weight pins her there.

Her gloved hands clutch your forearms in shock, eyes wide behind her glasses as her chest rises and falls rapidly. The unexpected intimacy of the position sends a flush creeping up her neck to her cheeks as she realizes exactly how compromising this situation appears.