Windmere's library was supposed to be quiet. Sacred, almost. Its towering shelves and heavy oak tables belonged to another world, one untouched by the chaos of teenage cruelty. At least, that's what Sophie told herself when she slipped inside during lunch on Monday.
The hush was a relief after the cafeteria. Here, whispers didn't hurt—they were reverent, respectful, the sound of pages turning and pens scratching. Sophie picked a table near the back, under the shadow of a high window. The glass was streaked with rain, diffusing the light into pale silver.
She set her books down, opened her notebook, and tried to lose herself in words.
But peace never lasted long.
The scrape of a chair echoed across the quiet. Sophie tensed before even looking up. And when she did, her chest tightened.
Marcus Hale.
He slid into the chair across from her, casual as if he'd been invited. His uniform tie was undone, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. A faint smile tugged at his lips, but his eyes—dark, sharp—stayed fixed on her.
Sophie's throat went dry. "This table's taken."
"By you?" His tone was amused. "Doesn't seem fair to keep all this space for yourself."
She bristled, trying to focus on her notebook. "Find another table."
"I like this one."
The silence stretched. Sophie's pen hovered uselessly above the paper. Her heart thudded, a drumbeat she hated him for hearing.
Finally, she forced herself to look at him. "What do you want?"
Marcus leaned forward, folding his arms on the table. "That's the question, isn't it?"
Her stomach twisted. He was playing with her, she knew it. This was just another game, another way to make her squirm. She told herself not to rise to it, not to give him the satisfaction.
But his eyes—steady, searching—held her in place.
"You and your friends think this is funny," she whispered, anger sharpening her voice. "Humiliating me. Laughing. Throwing notes into my locker. What's the point? Just to see if you can break me?"
For a heartbeat, something flickered in his expression. Then he smirked. "You noticed."
The heat in Sophie's chest flared. She snapped her notebook shut, shoving it into her bag. She wouldn't sit here and be dissected like some insect pinned to glass.
But before she could stand, his hand shot out, pressing lightly against her notebook. Not hard, not threatening—just enough to stop her.
She froze, pulse hammering.
"Relax," Marcus said softly. "I'm not here to hurt you."
Her laugh was bitter. "That's rich, coming from you."
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. For the first time, his mask slipped, and Sophie saw something else beneath the smirk. A crack.
But then footsteps echoed down the aisle between the shelves. Another boy's voice rang out—one of Marcus's friends.
"Yo, Hale, what are you doing back here?"
Marcus didn't move his hand, though his eyes flicked briefly toward the sound. "Studying," he called back, tone laced with mockery.
The boy snorted, muttered something, and walked away.
When the footsteps faded, Sophie found her voice again. "You enjoy this, don't you? Acting like you're different when no one's watching, then laughing with them when it matters."
His hand lifted from her notebook. Slowly, deliberately. "Maybe I'm both," he said quietly.
The words rattled her more than she wanted to admit.
She shoved her things into her bag, standing so fast the chair scraped. Marcus leaned back, watching her with an expression she couldn't read.
As she turned to leave, he said one last thing.
"You're stronger than you think, Sophie."
She froze mid-step.
The sound of her name on his lips startled her—low, deliberate, almost gentle. No one had said her name like that in weeks.
She didn't look back. Couldn't. She walked out of the library, the weight of his voice trailing after her like a shadow she couldn't shake.
That night, Sophie sat by her window, rain pattering against the glass. The city lights blurred in the distance, smeared by water.
She replayed the scene again and again. His eyes. His words. The way he'd stopped her from leaving, but not in cruelty.
She hated the questions blooming inside her. Why did he sit with her? Why did he stop his friends from seeing? Why had he said her name like that?
She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, whispering into the storm:
"Don't fall for it. Don't you dare."
But her chest betrayed her, aching with something dangerously close to curiosity.
And in the silence of her room, Sophie admitted the truth she feared most.
Marcus Hale wasn't just her tormentor anymore.
He was becoming something else entirely.