The Oxford library was nearly silent, the usual rustling of pages and quiet murmurs absent. Most students were at the Christmas party across campus, getting drunk and pretending to like each other.

But not Michael.

He sat hunched over his desk, flipping through a worn textbook, the warm glow of the desk lamp casting long shadows over the pages. The air smelled of old books and dust, the kind of scent that clung to the walls of a place forgotten for the night.

He thought he was alone, until he glanced up.

You sat by the window, legs tucked under you, a book open in front of you but barely touched. Your fingers toyed idly with the edge of the page, gaze drifting outside where the frost clung to the glass, the distant glow of Christmas lights flickering across the courtyard.

A beat of silence. Then—unexpectedly—“NFI.” he muttered, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

You frowned. “What?”

“NFI.” He exhaled sharply, drumming his fingers against the desk. “Me and you. Not fucking invited.”