Chapter Three: The Library Trouble
The library was my sanctuary. Its silence was a physical presence, thick and velvety, broken only by the distant rustle of a page or the soft tap of a keyboard. I'd claimed my usual fortress in a secluded corner by the tall, rain-streaked window, shielded by a wall of psychology textbooks on human behavior—a subject that felt bitterly ironic today.
I was curled into a worn leather armchair, the material cool against my bare legs beneath the soft, cream-colored fabric of my skirt. My oversized cardigan was a comforting weight, the sleeves swallowing my hands as I held a highlighter. My hair was a mess, twisted up with a pencil, and my glasses kept sliding down my nose as I tried to lose myself in the text. I was trying to be invisible. To forget the humiliating spectacle of the lecture hall.
Thud.
The sound was soft but definitive, breaking the sacred quiet. A heavy book had been placed on the wooden table directly opposite my chair. My gaze traveled up from the worn cover, past the casual grip of a man's hand, along the sleeve of a simple brown linen shirt rolled to the elbows, and landed on his face.
Him.
My professor. The man from the mall.
He settled into the armchair across from me with a quiet sigh, as if he belonged there. The space between us was just the width of the sturdy oak table, yet it felt perilously small. Sunlight, weak and grey from the overcast sky, slanted through the window, catching the dust motes dancing in the air between us and glinting off the frames of his glasses. He opened his own book—a dense-looking volume on economic theory—and for a moment, there was only the sound of our breathing, strangely synchronized in the quiet.
"Do you haunt me for fun?" I hissed, trying to whisper, trying to reclaim the last ounce of dignity I had left. "This is a library."
He didn't look up, but a faint smile touched his lips. He leaned back in his chair, the brown fabric of his shirt stretching slightly across his shoulders. The casual pose was an invasion. His presence altered the very atmosphere of my corner, charging it with a quiet, unnerving energy.
"And you're reading about defense mechanisms. How fitting."
I scowled, clutching my highlighter tighter. The scent of old paper and lemon polish was suddenly mixed with something else—clean cotton and a faint, crisp scent like sandalwood. It was distracting.
"Did you seriously just stalk me into the library to throw shade?"
"I was already here," he said smoothly, still not looking up. His finger traced a line of text. "Didn't expect to find my favorite student, though."
His voice was a low murmur, meant only for the space between our two chairs. It felt intimate, a secret shared in the vast quiet.
"Don't call me that," I snapped, adjusting my glasses like it might armor me.
Finally, he lifted his gaze. Over the top of his own glasses, his eyes met mine. He leaned forward slightly, elbows coming to rest on the table, bridging the gap between us by a few dangerous inches.
"You know, most students try to impress their new professor. You're trying really hard not to."
I could see the faint weave of his linen shirt, the precise cut of his hair, the subtle curve of his smile. My heart gave a traitorous thump. I slammed my notebook shut, the sound too loud in the hush.
"I don't care about impressing anyone. Especially not someone who weaponizes smirks for a living."
"You're fun," he said, the word lingering, a soft exhale in the quiet.
The way he said it felt like a touch. I pulled my cardigan tighter around myself.
"Stop saying that. I'm not your entertainment."
He chuckled, the sound warm and low, and brushed a loose strand of hair behind his ear. The simple movement was captivating.
"Could've fooled me."
My face grew warm. I could feel the heat creeping up my neck. I grabbed my bag, the leather smooth under my trembling fingers.
"Temper, temper," he said lightly, his brown eyes holding mine. "You're going to scare the Freud out of people."
As I stood, my skirt whispering against the leather of the chair, he didn't move. He just watched me, his head tilted slightly.
"Walking away won't save you," he murmured.
His voice was so soft it was almost part of the library's silence. It stopped me cold, my hand on the back of my chair.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He leaned forward just a fraction more. The sunlight caught the rich brown of his eyes, making them seem lighter, warmer.
"You can try to avoid me," he said, his voice a quiet, intimate rumble. "But… I don't do easily avoided things."
The air between us seemed to crackle. The world narrowed to this table, these two chairs, the few feet of charged space.
"You're insane," I whispered, my own voice breathless.
"Maybe. But you like it," he said, his gaze dropping to my lips for a fleeting second before returning to my eyes.
I turned, my steps hurried as I moved down the nearest aisle of towering bookshelves. The silence was no longer peaceful; it was listening. I could feel the weight of his attention like a physical pressure between my shoulder blades. I ducked into a narrow row, the smell of old paper and dust enveloping me. I pressed my back against the cool shelves, trying to calm my racing heart.
"You can hide," his voice floated, gentle and knowing, from the end of the aisle. He wasn't following, just… waiting. "But I always find my favorite student."
I closed my eyes, my grip tightening on the shelf. His words weren't a threat; they were a statement of fact, and that was far more unnerving.
"Don't call me that!" I hissed, the sound swallowed by the books.
"You don't get to decide what I call you," he replied, his voice still calm, still close. "You don't get to decide anything that involves me. Especially not when I've got my eyes on you."
I couldn't see him, but I could picture him leaning against a shelf, arms crossed, that infuriating, captivating smirk on his face. My glasses had slipped again. I pushed them up, my hands unsteady.
"You're unbelievable," I whispered, mostly to myself.
"And yet, here you are," his voice came again, softer now, as if he'd taken a step into the aisle. "Sitting there like you're completely in control. But you're not. You never were."
I heard the faint creak of a floorboard. He was closer. I inched backward, the fabric of my skirt catching slightly on the rough shelf.
"Step away from me."
"Or what?" His voice was a whisper now, right around the corner of the shelf. "Will you run?"
"Maybe I will."
"Try me."
The challenge hung in the dusty air. I could either stay trapped in this alcove or walk past him. Summoning every shred of courage, I stepped out.
He was there, leaning casually against the end of the bookshelf, as I'd imagined. He straightened as I approached, and for a moment, we were mere inches apart in the narrow space. I could see the individual threads in his brown shirt, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. His scent wrapped around me. My breath hitched.
He leaned in, just slightly, his voice dropping to a murmur meant only for me.
"Round two?" he murmured, eyes twinkling with dangerous amusement.
I forced myself to meet his gaze, to not back down even as my pulse thrummed in my ears.
"Round two?" I echoed, voice trembling slightly. "We haven't even had round one!"
He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating in the intimate space.
"Oh, we have. You just didn't realize it yet."
He didn't move to block me, but his presence filled the aisle. I sidestepped, my shoulder brushing against his arm as I passed. The contact was fleeting, a whisper of linen against my cardigan, but it sent a jolt through me. I didn't look back, walking as quickly as I could without running, the sound of my footsteps absorbed by the carpet.
But I could feel it—his gaze, a warm, lingering touch on my back until I turned the corner and finally broke its hold.
Even as I fled into the muted light of the afternoon, the memory of that proximity, that charged silence, followed me. The sanctuary of the library had been irrevocably changed.
This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.