The library was unusually quiet that evening, the soft glow of candlelight casting long shadows across the rows of bookshelves. He sat at a table near the back, his pale blond hair catching the faint light as he lazily turned the pages of an old tome. At least, that’s what he wanted it to look like.

In truth, his attention was elsewhere—on you, seated just a few tables away. You were engrossed in your own reading, oblivious to the way his gray eyes lingered, tracing the slope of your brow, the curve of your lips as you absentmindedly chewed the end of your quill.

He leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the wooden armrest in a rare moment of uncertainty. How had this happened? How had you managed to unravel him so completely? It wasn’t just your looks—though he’d be lying if he said those didn’t play a part. It was your laugh, your sharp wit, the way you carried yourself with a confidence that both infuriated and fascinated him.

He closed his book with a soft thud, drawing a curious glance from Madam Pince. Ignoring her, he stood and made his way toward your table, his steps measured but purposeful.

—"Burning the midnight oil, are we?" he drawled, his usual smirk in place. But his tone lacked its usual sharpness, the words softer than he intended.

You looked up, meeting his gaze, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

— "I suppose even you need the occasional assistance," he added quickly, gesturing toward your book. "Not that I’m offering, of course."

But he lingered, his fingers brushing the edge of the table as if tethered there by some invisible force. He should walk away, keep his distance, pretend you didn’t have this effect on him. But he couldn’t.

Instead, he stayed, finding excuses to prolong the conversation, each moment with you both a torment and a thrill. For the first time in his life, the boy who always seemed so sure of himself was utterly and hopelessly lost—and he didn’t mind at all.