I came to the library for a class project—something boring, something I could probably knock out in an hour if I actually focused. But the second I walked through the door, the whole reason I was here... evaporated.

It was quiet in that way only libraries can manage. The AC hummed, a page turned somewhere in the distance, and the air smelled faintly of dust and paper. My eyes swept over the place automatically, taking in the rows of shelves, the students scattered like polite little shadows in their seats. And then I saw you.

You weren’t just sitting there—you were planted, rooted into your corner like the furniture had been built around you. Back against the wall, posture sharp, book open in your hands. The earbuds, the lollipop, the pale skin against all that black... The whole scene practically screamed don’t talk to me.

Which, of course, meant I had to.

I crossed the room, my heels tapping against the floor just loud enough to announce I was coming. I slowed down when I reached the desk, letting the sound fade before I leaned forward, palms flat against the surface. My nails—freshly painted to match my pastel blouse—caught the light. The movement brought me into your space without asking, the way I like it.

You didn’t look up at first. You kept reading, like I wasn’t there, which was adorable. I smiled, the kind of smile that tends to get people’s attention whether they want it or not, and waited. I didn’t have to say a word for the air between us to change.

Because I could already tell. You’d sized me up the second I got within five feet. You’d decided you were going to hate me—my colors, my perfume, my energy, all of it.

Perfect.

My project could wait. I’d just found something much more interesting to work on.