The air of the university library smelled of centuries of paper, of weathered leather bindings, and the faint, almost imperceptible, scent of furniture polish. A reverential silence, barely broken by the rustle of turning pages and the occasional tapping of a laptop, enveloped the tall, dark wooden shelves that disappeared into the gloom of the less-traveled aisles. It was the sanctuary of study, a bastion against the campus bustle, and the least likely place to find someone like Noctael Grimwalt, at least not with genuine academic intentions.

However, there she was, or rather, there she appeared, materializing at the end of aisle E, Ancient Philosophy section –a place Noctael wouldn't set foot in even if her life depended on it out of genuine interest–, with the studied casualness of someone pretending to look for a specific tome while her blue eyes, unusually clear today and without the usual redness that sleepless nights or smoke gave them, scanned the surroundings with an almost predatory speed. You were sitting at one of the solid oak individual tables, wedged between two shelves crammed with dusty volumes, your head bent over a thick textbook, a lock of hair escaping from how you had it tied back, probably with a pencil or a makeshift clip. The diffuse light filtering through a high window, sifted by the accumulated dust on the panes, illuminated the profile of your focused face, creating an aura of tranquility that Noctael, with her mere presence, seemed destined to disturb. She sketched an internal smile, a smirk that didn't reach her eyes, before composing an expression of delighted surprise, as if she had just stumbled upon the most delicious and unexpected find of the day.

"Well, well! Who do we have here?" Her voice, though modulated to a theatrical whisper so as not to completely break the solemnity of the place –an effort that cost her dearly, accustomed as she was to being the noisy center of attention–, resonated with a familiarity that, for you in your amnesiac state, must have sounded like the sweetest and most comforting of melodies. She approached with that carefree gait so characteristic of her, the soles of her designer sneakers, somewhat worn from constant use, barely making a sound on the worn linoleum floor. She leaned over you, resting a hand on the table surface, invading your personal space with a confidence and naturalness that you had learned to interpret, under the influence of her lies, as the possessive and affectionate gesture of a girlfriend. Her blonde curls, with that small, messy high ponytail that had become one of her trademarks, almost brushed your cheek as she drew near.

"I didn't know my favorite brainiac also frequented these... intellectual haunts," she murmured, a lopsided smile playing on her lips. Before you could utter a word, if you even intended to, surprised by her sudden appearance, Noctael's other hand went to your hair. Her fingers, surprisingly agile despite her tough-girl appearance, sank into it with calculated tenderness, ruffling it a bit, as if she were petting an adorable and slightly clueless puppy. The gesture was intentionally possessive, a territorial marking disguised as careless affection.

"You look cute when you're so focused," she whispered, her lips almost brushing your temple before planting a quick but audible kiss on your cheek, dangerously close to the corner of your lips. The scent of her minty shampoo and the faint trace of tobacco smoke permeated the air around you, a combination that had become synonymous with Noctael's presence.

She straightened up a bit, though without moving too far away, maintaining that closeness that nullified any attempt by you to regain your bubble of concentration. Her face suddenly adopted an expression of sudden and pressing need, as if she had just remembered something vital.

"Hey, sweetie," she began, her tone turning conspiratorial, "you'll save my life, won't you? It's a life-or-death emergency, well, almost." She paused dramatically. "Turns out I have to make some super urgent photocopies for Professor Davies' class, that old grump, and I just realized I left my wallet in my gym locker. Rushing this morning! I'm such a disaster!" She ran a hand through her hair, messing up her ponytail a little more.

"You wouldn't happen to have some spare change, would you? About... twenty euros? For the copies and a coffee to endure old Davies. I'll pay you back this afternoon, as soon as I swing by my locker after soccer practice. Promised, Grimwalt's honor." The "promised" came out with astonishing ease, causing her a slight nausea in a very deep corner of her conscience. For an almost imperceptible instant, a nervous tic twitched the corner of her left lip, but she quickly disguised it with a hopeful smile.

About fifteen meters away, clumsily hidden behind an imposing shelf of Greco-Roman Classics, three figures held their breath and stifled their laughter. The "Grim Reapers" in full force: Jax, with his shark-like grin; Leo, covering his mouth to keep from laughing; and Sam, discreetly recording the scene with his phone.

While you undoubtedly reached for your wallet with the eagerness of someone wanting to help their beloved in distress, Noctael maintained the "grateful girlfriend" smile on her face. However, her eyes strayed for a moment to the dusty window where sunbeams illuminated dancing dust particles. For a split second, the image of your childhood self offering her your only candy with equally blind trust flashed through her mind like a painful lightning bolt. She shook her head almost imperceptibly, batting away the memory like an annoying fly.

When the bills, offered with a kind smile, were finally in her hand, Noctael gave you a conspiratorial wink and dazzling smile.

"You're the best, prince. I'll see you at home later, okay? And I'll make you that pasta you love so much to make it up to you," she lied without the slightest hint of doubt in her voice.