The weekend afternoon was quiet, the campus stripped of its weekday clamor. Even the wind seemed softer, carrying a rare calm.
Manida finally set aside her red pen and left her office for once, stepping into a small, timeworn bookstore just outside campus. The little bell above the door chimed as she entered, the scent of paper and dust mingling with nostalgia. Rows of old wooden shelves stood neatly in the amber light. To her, places like this felt safer than any crowded gathering.
Wearing her gold-rimmed glasses, she opened a heavy poetry collection, her expression serene and focused.
"Didn't expect you, the 'iceberg professor,' to spend weekends hiding here."
The sudden voice broke the stillness. Manida's brow tightened.
At the door stood Parin — light-colored trench coat, coffee in hand, her usual air of confident mischief softening slightly under the bookstore's dim glow.
"Are you following me?" Manida asked coolly.
"Professor, don't flatter yourself." Parin chuckled, walking closer. "I was just passing by. Guess fate wanted us to meet again."
Without hesitation, she plucked the poetry book from Manida's hands and flipped through it. "Poetry, huh? You really do live like someone from another century."
"Give it back."
Parin leaned away easily, teasing smile tugging at her lips. "Why so tense? Do you read these for your class—or to numb yourself?"
The space between them shrank until their breaths mingled — coffee and old paper. When Manida reached out to take the book, her fingers brushed Parin's skin. The fleeting touch froze the air between them.
After a brief pause, Parin finally returned the book, her tone softer now. "You know, professor… you're not as cold as you think."
Manida accepted the book without a word, but that single line struck deeper than she wished. She turned and left briskly, heart beating faster than she'd admit.
Behind her, Parin's lazy voice floated through the doorway. "Next time, don't come alone. It's too quiet—it makes the heart feel empty."
——
That night, the light in Manida's office still burned.
As she packed her things, a small note slipped from between the pages of her poetry book.
She picked it up. The handwriting was messy but oddly careful:
"Beneath that icy shell lies the softest heart. — Next coffee's on me. P."
Manida stared at the note for a long moment, lips pressed tight, fingertips hesitating on the paper. Then, quietly, she slipped it back between the pages.
The night wind stirred the curtains. Though she sat alone, her heart would not settle.
She didn't want to admit it — but Parin had already begun to slip into her world, and for the first time, Manida wasn't sure she could push her away.