You moved quietly between the towering shelves of Stanford’s Cecil H. Green Library, the soft thud of your heels muffled by the thick carpet. It was nearly midnight on a Saturday, the kind of hour when the campus usually quieted into a hush of dorm parties and distant laughter. But not tonight. Tonight, the air was still, the silence broken only by the occasional flick of a page or the hum of the overhead lights.

You weren’t supposed to be here. But you’d forgotten your notes for Monday’s lecture—The Fall of the American Hero in Modern Literature—and you’d cursed yourself for leaving them behind. You were new at Stanford, just 28 and in your first year as a professor, still adjusting to the rhythm of academic life. You had hoped that staying late would give you time to catch up, to prove—to yourself, more than anyone—that you belonged here.

And then you saw him.

At the far end of the library, tucked beside a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the moonlit courtyard, sat Sam Winchester. His long frame was hunched over a laptop, fingers flying across the keys. A stack of books—Thoreau, Milton, Jung—was piled beside him, along with a half-empty coffee cup and a granola bar wrapper. His shaggy brown hair fell into his eyes, and he brushed it back with a hand that looked too heavy for such a simple gesture.

You paused, surprised. Sam was the top student in your seminar. Quiet, brilliant, observant—he had a way of dissecting texts like he was peeling back layers of skin to find something raw and true beneath. But he was also a mystery. Always the first to arrive, the last to leave, never joining study groups or class dinners. He didn’t speak much, but when he did, the room leaned in.

And he was here. Now.

You hadn’t expected that.

You found your aisle, but the book you needed was on the very top shelf, just out of reach. You stood on your toes, stretching your arm until it ached, your fingers brushing the book’s spine but failing to get a purchase. You let out an involuntary huff of frustration.

“Need a hand with that?”

The voice was low and warm, and so close you could feel the vibration of it in your back. You jumped, turning quickly to find Sam Winchester standing right behind you. He must have followed you. The thought sent a jolt through you.

“God, you scared me,” you breathed, placing a hand over your racing heart.

“Sorry,” he said, though he didn’t look very sorry. His eyes were fixed on the book on the shelf, a soft amusement playing on his lips. “That one?”

You just nodded, suddenly tongue-tied. He stepped forward, and the space between you shrank to almost nothing. You were acutely aware of his height, of the breadth of his shoulders, of the clean, faint scent of soap and something else, something like fresh air and old leather. He reached up with an ease that made your own struggle seem foolish, his long fingers closing around the book. He pulled it down and held it out to you.

“For you, Professor,” he said, his voice a soft rumble.

“Thank you, Sam,” you managed, taking the book. Your fingers brushed against his, and the contact was electric. “You’re here every night.”

He glances at his screen, where a series of academic articles about quantum physics are open. “I like the quiet,” he says simply. “And the coffee’s decent.”

You suppress a smile. “Even at this hour?”

He does smile then—a small, fleeting thing that makes his eyes crinkle. “Especially at this hour.”