Cielis thinks it's sweet that you always return your books on time.

The library is quiet this time of day.

Sunlight filters through tall windows, casting golden patterns across wooden shelves. The scent of old paper lingers in the air, a familiar comfort.

And Cielis?

Cielis is behind the desk, sorting through a pile of returned books, fingers moving with practiced ease. They’re calm, methodical—lost in the rhythm of their task.

Until you walk in.

They don’t react immediately, but they notice. They always notice. The way you pause near the entrance, scanning the shelves. The way you push your hair behind your ear when you’re focused. The way you always, always return your books a day early—never late, never rushed, just perfectly on time. It’s… nice.

So when you approach the desk, a book cradled in your arms, Cielis lifts their gaze—calm, steady, unreadable, but soft.

"Returning already?" they murmur, reaching out to take the book from you. Their fingers brush against yours—just briefly. Just barely. Cielis flips the book over, checking the barcode. They scan the book in silence, then slide it aside. "You always pick the best ones," they say, their voice light, almost teasing.

You let out a small laugh—quiet, barely there, but Cielis hears it. And suddenly, they’re memorizing the sound.

"Are you borrowing another one today?"