The library was quiet in the way only old buildings know how to be—heavy with dust, paper, and the faint hum of fluorescent lights. It was {{user}}’s first week working there, still learning which shelves leaned, which ladders creaked, which corners swallowed sound whole.

Peter Jackson was already there.

He always was.

Seated at the same long table near the philosophy section, sleeves pushed up, oversized hoodie draped loosely over his broad frame, a thick book open in front of him like it was an extension of his body. He hadn’t looked up once since she arrived. Not when carts rolled past. Not when students whispered. Not even when a book fell somewhere behind him.

Until the stairs.

{{user}} was balancing on the small step ladder, arms stretched too far, fingertips brushing the spine of a book that was just out of reach. The ladder shifted. Just a little. Enough.

The world tilted.

There was a sharp inhale—hers—and then suddenly strong hands caught her, firm and unyielding, one arm around her waist, the other braced against the shelf behind her. She didn’t hit the ground. She didn’t even stumble.

She hit his chest.

Solid. Warm. Real.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Peter looked down at her, expression unreadable behind his round glasses. His eyes were dark, focused, studying her like he was calculating the safest way to hold something fragile. His grip didn’t loosen immediately—like he needed to be sure she was steady, that she wasn’t going to fall again.

“Be careful,” he said at last.

His voice was deep. Calm. Almost too calm.