The school library was almost too quiet for what was about to happen.
The ceiling fans hummed. The rows of dusty books stood like silent witnesses. A few students occupied the corner tables, hunched over homework or pretending to study while eavesdropping.
I spotted Austin near the back — already seated, already smug — flipping through his well-worn copy of Othello. A second chair was empty across from him, the seat of the enemy. My seat.
I dropped my bag onto the table louder than necessary.
"You're late," he said without looking up.
"You're annoying," I replied, sitting down.
He smirked and finally met my eyes. "We're off to a strong start."
I pulled out my copy of Othello, a notepad, and two pens — one for writing, one for stabbing if necessary.
"So," I said, flipping to a marked page. "We need three parts. One: the scene analysis. Two: the dramatic reading. Three: something creative."
Austin nodded. "Right. We need a scene that shows tension, conflict, and emotional complexity. Something we can both pull apart."
I raised a brow. "You mean like the scene where Othello accuses Desdemona? The 'handkerchief' scene?"
"Exactly." He grinned. "You'd make a great Desdemona."
"And you'd make a terrible Othello," I snapped.
"Jealousy suits me," he said, leaning back. "It's arrogance that wears you best."
I narrowed my eyes. "You want to fight already?"
"Just warming up."
We went back and forth for twenty straight minutes. Overanalyzing the scenes, bickering over character motivations, disagreeing on who got to narrate what. Every idea I liked, he challenged. Every point he made, I dissected like I was auditioning for a debate team.
Students started peeking over their textbooks like they were watching a live performance. I caught someone whispering. Another girl typed something on her phone and pointed toward us.
Austin didn't notice — or pretended not to.
I, on the other hand, was mortified.
"We are a public spectacle," I muttered, sinking a little lower in my chair.
Austin shrugged, unfazed. "Let them watch. This is premium content."
"You're insufferable."
"And yet…" He gestured between us. "This. Works."
I glared at him. But he wasn't entirely wrong. As much as I hated to admit it, our arguments — our chaos — were productive. We pushed each other. Ideas sharpened, perspectives deepened. I didn't always like what he said, but it made me think harder.
I sighed and opened my notebook.
"Okay. Here's a compromise," I said, finally. "We analyze Act III, Scene III. The accusation, the unraveling, the manipulation — it has everything. You take Othello's descent. I'll take Desdemona's loyalty and fear. We write separate reflections, tie them with a shared intro and conclusion."
Austin blinked, impressed. "That… actually makes sense."
"Don't sound so surprised."
"I'm just not used to you agreeing with me."
"I didn't. I agreed with myself and allowed you to be part of it."
He snorted. "There she is."
We finally got to work. Pens scratched, pages turned, the occasional whispered quote or sarcastic remark passed between us. The tension didn't vanish — but it shifted. Became something quieter. Sharper. Focused.
Austin took the left side of the notebook. I took the right. Occasionally, our hands brushed when we reached for the same book or passed a note. Neither of us said anything about it.
I was rereading one of Desdemona's lines when I felt it.
A gaze.
I looked up.
Austin's eyes snapped down to his notebook a second too late.
Caught.
Across the room, two girls at the window seat shared a dramatic gasp-laugh moment, whispering and definitely not being subtle.
I raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"What?" he said, still pretending to write.
"You were staring."
"I was… thinking."
"Thinking with your eyes?"
He didn't respond right away. Just tapped his pen on the desk and muttered, "You've got an expressive face."
I blinked.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means when you read, you look like you're living it."
He didn't look up. Just kept scribbling something onto his side of the page.
And for a second — one breath-long second — I didn't know what to say.
But I covered it with sarcasm.
"Well, you look like you're plotting a murder when you read."
He grinned. "Othello would be proud."
We worked for another hour. It was... oddly productive. Pages filled. Lines blurred — not just between characters and quotes, but between us.
Eventually, I stretched my arms and glanced at the time. "Okay. We need another session to draft the creative piece. Maybe something modern. Like a spoken word poem or a dialogue."
"Yeah," Austin nodded. "Something that blends our two interpretations."
"Exactly," I said. "So… when?"
He hesitated, then pulled out his phone. "Wednesday? After school?"
"I have piano lessons on Wednesdays," I said. "What about Thursday?"
He tilted his head. "I have fencing practice."
I stared. "Of course you do."
"What? It's not that weird."
"No, it's just... aggressively Austin."
He chuckled. "Friday, then?"
I nodded. "Library. Same time?"
"Same table," he added, closing his notebook.
I zipped up my bag and stood. "If you're late, I'm leaving."
"If I'm early, I'm grading your metaphors."
I rolled my eyes and turned to leave.
But as I walked out, I caught him looking again — just a glance — like he didn't mean to.
And this time, I didn't call him out on it.
Because for some reason...
I didn't mind it so much.