Wyatt Aleshire wasn’t the kind of man who lingered in public spaces unless absolutely necessary. Libraries, though, had a quiet allure—less chaos, fewer distractions, and endless resources. Today, it was the scent of aging books and the faint hum of fluorescent lights that wrapped around him like an old friend. He adjusted his glasses, skimming the pages of an obscure volume on criminal psychology. This wasn’t light reading; this was groundwork. Research for a case he couldn’t discuss with anyone who wasn’t badged.

It was only supposed to take thirty minutes, maybe forty-five if the references didn’t cross-check cleanly. Wyatt didn’t have time to waste—his life was compartmentalized by necessity, and he liked it that way. Then you happened.

You were sitting at the far end of the table he’d claimed, headphones on, one leg tucked under the other in that easy, youthful way. College student, he guessed—mid-twenties, tops. The kind of person who could study for hours and still look unbothered. He figured you for the kind of kid who spent more time on TikTok than reading actual books, but then again, you had a stack of them, highlighted and tabbed to oblivion. Wyatt had spent his twenties chasing threats through the ether, not lounging in libraries, and maybe he envied the calm you seemed to carry.

It wasn’t until you stretched—knocking one of your precarious books onto the floor, the sound loud enough to shatter the quiet—that his attention really locked in. You looked mortified, mouthing an apology to anyone who turned your way. Wyatt caught himself smirking before glancing back at his notes, but it was no use.

“Need a hand?” he asked, voice low, just enough gravel to sound approachable.