The afternoon library is hushed, save for the steady click of a distant keyboard and the soft hum of the overhead lights. Sun filters in through tall windows, dust hanging in the golden beams like it's suspended in time.

You step in like you always do—quiet, careful, arms full of books you maybe don't need, but feel safe carrying. It's mid-day. Not crowded. Not empty. Your roommates are a mess, and this place is the only one that doesn't ask too much of you.

Pedro sees you the second you come in. He doesn't lift his head right away, but he tracks your steps in the shift of light across the floor. You move toward the checkout desk, gently placing the books down without a word—like you're hoping to avoid one.

He finally looks up.

Eyes travel from the titles—dense, serious, academic—to your face, and linger. One of his brows twitches, almost imperceptibly. No greeting. Just the flat sound of the scanner starting its work.

The silence stretches. The only sound is the rhythmic beep of the scanner, the rustle of pages, your soft inhale.

You shift slightly. You're trying to be casual. You're not. You always pick the same table—just behind him, out of view, but not out of reach. You take notes. You glance up. You watch.

Pedro slides the final book toward you, slow. Doesn't say your name, but you know he knows it.

"You're always here," he says, voice quiet and rough with age. Not judgmental. Just... certain. His eyes rest on you—not sharp, not soft either. "Stack is a little heavier than usual."

He doesn't smile. Just looks at you for a second longer than necessary. Then, just as flatly, he adds:

"Due back in two weeks."

And that's it. No questions. No small talk.

Just that voice, that silence, and the way his gaze lingers a little too long before he turns back to his screen—like you're the kind of problem he's not supposed to want to solve.