Ch: The Library Trouble
The library was quiet—blessedly quiet. Just the way I liked it. I'd claimed a corner by the window, stacked behind a small fortress of psychology textbooks. My skirt flowed around my legs in soft, pale cream folds, the cardigan I had thrown on this morning slightly oversized, sleeves bunched at my wrists. My hair was twisted into a messy bun, a few rebellious strands escaping to frame my face, and glasses perched precariously on my nose. I looked… unremarkable. Perfectly invisible.
I was highlighting a passage on cognitive dissonance, trying to ignore yesterday's humiliation, when—
Thud.
Something landed on the table across from me, making my pen jump. I looked up.
Brown shirt. Glasses. Smirk. The devil himself. My professor.
> "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 leaned back, brown shirt stretched perfectly over broad shoulders, as though the fabric had been molded just for him. His smirk was both infuriating and… distractingly attractive. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, eyes glinting like a naughty nerd caught in the act.
> "And you're reading about defense mechanisms. How fitting."
I scowled.
> "Did you seriously just stalk me into the library to throw shade?"
> "I was already here," he said smoothly, opening a book upside down and pretending nothing was wrong. "Didn't expect to find my favorite student, though."
> "Don't call me that," I snapped, adjusting my glasses like it might armor me.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, eyes gleaming with amusement.
> "You know, most students try to impress their new professor. You're trying really hard not to."
I slammed my notebook shut, cheeks burning.
> "I don't care about impressing anyone. Especially not someone who weaponizes smirks for a living."
> "You're fun," he said, the word lingering, teasing.
> "Stop saying that. I'm not your entertainment."
He chuckled low, brushing a loose strand of hair behind his ear, smirk widening.
> "Could've fooled me."
I felt my face heat, and my glasses slipped down my nose slightly. I pushed them back and glared, willing him to leave.
> "Temper, temper," he said lightly, his brown eyes twinkling. "You're going to scare the Freud out of people."
I grabbed my bag, ready to escape the gaze that felt like it was reading me from the inside out.
> "You're unbelievable."
He didn't move. Didn't even blink.
> "Walking away won't save you," he murmured, low enough for only me to hear. Almost a warning. Almost a promise.
I froze.
> "What's that supposed to mean?"
He leaned forward just a fraction, and the sun caught the brown of his shirt, making it warmer somehow, familiar in a way that made my chest tighten.
> "You can try to avoid me," he said, voice soft, teasing, dangerous. "But… I don't do easily avoided things."
I swallowed hard, heart pounding.
> "You're insane," I whispered.
> "Maybe. But you like it," he said, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, the way he said it like he knew me better than I knew myself.
I spun on my heel, clutching my bag like a shield. My skirt swished around my legs as I marched down the aisle between bookshelves, pretending my pulse wasn't thundering in my ears.
Yet I could feel him. Watching. Every step. Every small movement. The way my cardigan bunched at my wrists, the slightly crooked glasses, the way I tucked a rebellious strand of hair behind my ear. He noticed it all.
I ducked into a quieter row of bookshelves, hoping the maze of shelves would shield me. My chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow breaths.
> "You can hide," he said from somewhere behind me. The sound of his voice bounced off the shelves. "But I always find my favorite student."
I froze, hands gripping a shelf. My knees went weak. I knew that tone—it wasn't just teasing. It was possessive.
> "Don't call me that!" I hissed, cheeks burning.
> "You don't get to decide what I call you," he replied smoothly, voice close now, too close. "You don't get to decide anything that involves me. Especially not when I've got my eyes on you."
I swallowed hard, wishing the library floor would open beneath me. My glasses fogged slightly from my own rapid breathing.
> "You're unbelievable," I whispered, mostly to myself.
> "And yet, here you are," he said, leaning casually against the edge of the table. "Sitting there like you're completely in control. But you're not. You never were."
I blinked, stepping back, brushing my skirt down.
> "Step away from me."
> "Or what?" His smirk turned into a half-grin, half-snarl. "Will you run?"
> "Maybe I will."
> "Try me."
I hesitated, skirt brushing against the floor as I slowly retreated. My heart was a frantic drum, my head dizzy from adrenaline and the knowledge that every word he said, every glance he threw, was intentional.
He leaned forward again, elbows on the table, brown shirt catching the light, a maddeningly perfect contrast to my messy, ordinary, "invisible" look.
> "Round two?" he murmured, eyes twinkling with dangerous amusement.
I turned sharply, nearly bumping into the end of the bookshelf.
> "Round two?" I echoed, voice trembling slightly. "We haven't even had round one!"
He chuckled softly.
> "Oh, we have. You just didn't realize it yet."
I froze mid-step, chest tight, as he tilted his head, eyes locked on mine, brown shirt warm and familiar, smirk devilish. For the first time, I felt a twinge of… curiosity? Something I didn't trust.
> "You're impossible," I muttered, straightening my cardigan, adjusting my messy bun.
> "And yet," he whispered, voice low, dangerous, "I can't stop thinking about you."
My hands trembled around my bag strap. My knees threatened to buckle. I swallowed hard, heart racing, and finally fled the library, skirts swishing around my legs like a storm warning.
But even as I disappeared around the corner, I could feel him watching.
> This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.