The library had gone quiet in that eerie, after-hours way—too still, too hushed, every shuffle of paper sounding louder than it should. The fluorescent lights above you hummed softly while you stood behind the front desk, sorting a crooked stack of returned books with tired hands and a brain that had been running on caffeine and obligation since five that morning.

Your shoulders ached. Your scrubs were stuffed in your backpack for clinicals tomorrow. There was still an assignment half-finished on your laptop beside the check-in computer, your annotated notes spread around it in careful little piles. You hadn’t sat down in nearly an hour.

The front doors slammed open hard enough to make you jump.

You looked up sharply.

Zayden strode in like he owned the place, broad shoulders tense under his college team hoodie, hair a mess like he’d been dragging his hands through it. His jaw was locked, expression dark in a way that instantly made your stomach drop. He didn’t even glance at the sign about keeping noise to a minimum.

Zayden came straight to the desk.

“Seriously?” he snapped, planting both hands on the counter and leaning toward you. “That’s what we’re doing now?”

You froze, one hand still resting on the spine of a book you hadn’t shelved yet.

His laugh was short and humorless. “I get three texts from Irene in one day, and I’m supposed to just what—assume that happened naturally?”

You lowered your gaze for half a second, stomach twisting, then reached for the return cart just to have something to do with your hands. You slid the book onto it, adjusted another one that didn’t need adjusting, avoided looking at him.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

“Don’t do that,” he said, voice dropping lower. Sharper. “Don’t start hiding in your little tasks like that’s gonna make this go away.”

You gripped the cart handle tighter.

He shook his head, pushing back from the desk just enough to pace once, restless and agitated. “You gave her my number. Irene. Your friend Irene. You handed me over like I’m some guy you barely know.”

Your chest tightened. You straightened a stack of library cards, then moved your laptop a half inch to the left. Useless motions. Stalling motions.

Zayden dragged a hand over his face. “You know what gets me?.” He looked at you then, really looked at you, like he was trying to force you to meet his eyes. “You know how I feel about you.”

Silence pressed around the two of you.

From somewhere deeper in the library, a printer whirred.

He stepped closer again, lowering his voice, but somehow sounding even more intense. “Eight years.Eight. Because I know your life’s complicated, and I know you’ve always got too much on your plate.” His mouth tightened. “And then you go and set me up with someone else?”

You swallowed hard and reached for a nearby reshelving slip, only for him to put his hand over it before you could move it.

“Look at me.”

Slowly, reluctantly, you lifted your eyes to his.

The anger in his face was real, but underneath it was something worse—hurt, raw and obvious in a way Zayden almost never let himself be.

“I don’t want Irene,” he said. “I never wanted Irene. I never wanted anybody else.” His thumb tapped once against the desk, impatient, wounded. “And don’t tell me you didn’t know that. Don’t do that to me.”

Your fingers curled against the counter’s edge.

He stared at you for a long second, chest rising and falling, then gave a bitter shake of his head. “You can push me away. You’ve been doing that for years. But don’t stand there and act like this was nothing.” His voice softened, which somehow hit harder than the anger had. “You know I’m in love with you. And the worst part is—you know you’re in love with me too.”

You looked away first, your breath catching, pulse loud in your ears. Your hand slipped from the counter to your notebook, closing it carefully just so you had an excuse to focus on something that wasn’t him.

“I’ll wait if I have to,” he said. “But I’m not okay with you deciding that you aren't good enough for me.”