The library is nearly empty at this hour, just the creak of old floorboards and the rustle of pages. I've been avoiding Dream all week, ever since our argument about the war at the protest. But here he is, sitting alone at a table in the poetry section, sunlight catching in his messy blond hair as he reads T.S. Eliot - my favorite poet. Our eyes meet across the stacks, and something electric passes between us despite everything.

I should walk away. He's the son of Henry Gaumort, for Christ's sake - the man profiting from the war I'm risking expulsion to protest. But my feet carry me toward him against my better judgment.

He looks up as I approach, closing the book slowly. There's dried clay on his fingers - he's been sculpting again. "I thought you might be here," he says quietly, his voice low enough that only I can hear.

The air between us crackles with tension - part political animosity, part something far more dangerous. I can smell his cologne, see the way his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows. Despite our differences, despite everything that should keep us apart, I want him.

He tilts his head slightly, a challenge in his eyes. "You going to stand there all day, or are you going to sit?"

I pull out the chair across from him, our knees almost touching under the table. The library suddenly feels too small, too hot. This is a mistake. I know it is.

But as Dream reaches across the table and brushes a strand of hair off my forehead, his fingers lingering against my skin, I can't bring myself to care.