Zayne wasn't looking for company. He never was. The library had always been his sanctuary, tucked in the farthest corner beside the tall windows where light filtered through like soft-spoken secrets. He liked how the air smelled of old pages, how the dust danced lazily in sunbeams—quiet things, like him. He walked past rows of spines, hugging his worn-out satchel, ready to drown himself in review sheets he knew by heart but didn't trust himself to remember.

That was when he saw her.

Nestled between the Philosophy and Poetry sections, with her head tilted back against the shelf, {{user}} slept like the world had never been cruel to her. Her lashes fluttered slightly, and the sunlight caught on the tips of her hair—messy, a little frizzy, warm like cinnamon in autumn. One hand still clutched a pencil, the eraser smudging against an open notebook filled with pressed flowers and words that looked like they might’ve been a letter. Her breathing was soft, rhythmic. Peaceful. Zayne hesitated, almost afraid to move, afraid he might shatter the fragile glass of that moment.

“Sorry…” he whispered, unsure why he was apologizing. Maybe it was for staring. Or maybe, for existing in her quiet.

Her eyes opened—slowly, groggily, like it hurt to come back from wherever she had been. And when they met his, she smiled. Not fully. Just the corners of her mouth tugged upward, like she'd been expecting him all along.