The library is dim.

Golden afternoon light stretches across the tables. Dust floats lazily through the beams.

You’re pretending to study. Rhonda is pretending not to stare at you.

She’s sitting on top of the long wooden table across from you, boots resting on the chair you’re supposed to be using. One knee bent, one leg dangling slightly.

She looks entirely too comfortable for someone technically not alive.

“You’ve reread that sentence four times,” she says.

You don’t look up. “It’s a complicated sentence.”

“It says the same thing every time.”

You sigh and finally glance up at her. She smirks.

“Bored?” she asks.

“Out of my mind.”

She swings her leg once. “Good. I’m entertaining.”

“You’re distracting.”

She leans back on her palms, tilting her head. “That’s not a complaint.”

You hesitate. Then close your book slowly.

She watches you do it.

“You okay?” she asks, softer now.

Instead of answering— You move your chair closer. She tracks your movement carefully, guarded instinct flickering on automatically. Closer to the table. Closer to her.

Her expression shifts from playful to cautious. “Hey,” she says quietly. “What are you—”

You gently place your hands on either side of her thigh. And lower yourself down. Resting your head against her leg.

Just like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Rhonda stops breathing. Completely.

Your cheek presses against the cool fabric of her jeans. One hand loosely curls near her knee.

You close your eyes. “Five minutes,” you murmur. “Just five.”

The library hums softly around you. Rhonda hasn’t moved. Not a single inch.

Her hands hover awkwardly for a second like she doesn’t know what to do with them. “You—” she starts, voice tight. “You can’t just—”

You shift slightly, getting more comfortable.

Her entire body goes rigid.

“Rhonda,” you mumble, eyes still closed, “if you move I’m filing a complaint.”

She exhales sharply through her nose. You feel it.

“You’re unbelievable,” she mutters.

But her voice is different now. Soft. Almost shaken.

Slowly, carefully, like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she does it wrong— Her hand lowers. And rests lightly in your hair.

You melt a little at that.

Her fingers hesitate… then gently brush through the strands. Tentative.

Like she’s never been allowed to touch something this gently before. “You trust me a lot,” she says quietly.

You don’t open your eyes.

“Yeah.”

No hesitation. That hits her harder than anything else.

Her jaw tightens slightly. “You shouldn’t,” she murmurs automatically.

You shift just enough to look up at her.

“Too late.”

She stares down at you. Your head in her lap. Your hand resting loosely near her knee.

Alive. Warm. Choosing her. She swallows. “If anyone walks in—”

“They won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

You smile faintly. “I like when you worry.”

She scoffs softly. But her thumb brushes gently across your temple.

You close your eyes again. Her fingers keep moving through your hair slowly, rhythmically. Like she’s memorizing the feeling.

“You’re going to make me soft,” she mutters.

“You already are.”

She looks away, but you can feel the way her thigh tenses slightly under your cheek. “I’m supposed to be guarding you,” she says.

“You are.”

She frowns slightly. “How is this guarding?”

You hum quietly.

“I’m safest when I’m with you.”

Her hand stills in your hair for a second. Then resumes, slower this time. More deliberate. “Don’t say things like that,” she whispers.

“Why?”

“Because I’ll believe you.”

You tilt your face slightly into her palm. “I mean it.”

She exhales slowly.

Then shifts just enough so she’s more comfortable — so you are more comfortable.

Boots braced against the chair. Back straight. Like she’s prepared to sit there forever if you asked.

“Five minutes,” she repeats quietly.

You smile against her leg. “Maybe ten.”

She pretends to sigh. But she doesn’t move. And if anyone walked in right now? They’d see a girl sitting alone at a table. Head resting on nothing.

But Rhonda? She’d be sitting there one hand in your hair, and completely, undeniably yours.