The library was quieter than usual, its long wooden tables basked in golden afternoon light. Dust particles danced lazily in the sunbeams, and the only sound was the soft rustling of pages being turned, pens tapping against notebooks, and the occasional muted cough.
Liam sat at a corner table by the window, staring at his laptop screen. A blank Google Doc stared back at him. The cursor blinked, mocking him.
They were supposed to be working on their paper. Supposed to.
He glanced across the table.
Cara was there, chin resting on her palm, tapping her pen slowly against her notebook. She wasn't writing either.
Her eyes flicked up—and met his.
They both froze, like they'd been caught doing something forbidden, even though they hadn't moved or spoken.
Cara was the first to break the silence. "Is it just me, or is writing harder when there's... stuff going on in your head?"
Liam exhaled a laugh. "Not just you."
She leaned back in her chair, sighing, stretching her arms behind her head. "Okay. Let's not pretend we're writing. Can we just... talk?"
"About?"
"You. Me. This. Everything," she said softly.
Liam sat back, the chair creaking under him. "Alright."
Cara looked at him with that same curious, slightly vulnerable gaze she'd given him during their last café conversation. "I've been thinking about what you said. About not wanting to be a rebound."
"Still true," he said gently.
She nodded. "And I get it. I really do. That's what makes this tricky."
He tilted his head. "This?"
She hesitated. "Whatever... this is becoming."
There it was again—that invisible line between friendship and something more, growing blurrier with each shared glance, each moment stretched a little too long.
"I'm scared," she admitted.
Liam blinked. "Of me?"
"Of what it would mean to feel something new right after something ended," she said. "And of hurting you. Or myself. Or both of us."
Liam took a deep breath. "I don't need you to promise anything right now, Cara. I'm not asking you to jump into something before you're ready. But I also don't want to pretend that there's nothing happening here."
Cara smiled faintly. "You're really bad at hiding it now."
"Not trying anymore," he said with a small smirk.
There was a pause. A warm silence. The kind that didn't feel awkward—just… full.
"Remember first year?" Cara asked suddenly. "That group debate? When I accidentally said the wrong country name and turned red for the entire class?"
Liam grinned. "You said 'Egypt' when you meant 'Sudan.' And then said, 'Because they're both hot places,' which made it worse."
Cara buried her face in her hands, laughing. "God, I wanted the earth to swallow me."
"I laughed," Liam said. "But not because it was dumb. I laughed because you tried so hard to keep going."
"You didn't even know me that well back then."
"Didn't need to."
Her smile faded into something softer. "You really saw me, didn't you?"
"I still do."
The moment stretched.
And stretched.
Then Cara stood up, walked around the table, and sat beside him—not across from him.
Her shoulder brushed his.
They both pretended not to notice.
"I think I'm still figuring things out," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "But if I figure it out... and if the answer is you, would you still want me?"
Liam turned to her. His heart pounded in his ears, but his voice came out steady.
"I'd still want you," he said. "Even if it takes time."
Cara looked down at their hands resting on the table—so close, not quite touching.
"Then let me take it slow," she said. "Let me feel it without fear. Let me rediscover what I want without the weight of someone else's expectations."
Liam nodded. "Slow's okay."
She leaned her head slightly against his shoulder—not completely, just barely enough to touch. But it was enough.
In the quiet library, with the smell of old books and sunlight warming the table, it felt like something delicate was taking root between them.
Not fireworks. Not declarations.
Just a beginning.
Just the space between words.
And for now, that was enough.