You don’t raise your voice.

That’s how he knows you’re serious.

“If you’re going to kiss me,” you murmur, fingers already fisting the fabric of his cloak, “do it properly.”

For the first time, Alhaitham actually stills.

Then you pull.

Books shift. Wood thuds softly. You back him into the shelf with intent this time—no hesitation, no half-measures. Your palm presses flat to his chest, right over his heart, and you kiss him before he can make another infuriatingly calm remark.

It’s not rushed.

It’s deliberate. Firm. Just long enough to make a point.

When you pull back, his eyes are darker. Focused. Very awake.

“…That,” he says quietly, “was unnecessary.”

You arch a brow. “You didn’t stop me.”

A pause.

Then—his hand settles at your waist, fingers curling just slightly, grounding but restrained. He leans in just enough that his breath brushes your lips.

“Next time,” he murmurs, “warn me before you escalate.”

Footsteps echo down the aisle.

Instantly, he steps back. Composed. Unbothered. Scholar once more. He adjusts his gloves like nothing happened and turns away.

You think that’s the end of it.

It isn’t.

Later—much later—when the library is quieter, when lamplight replaces daylight and the aisles feel narrower

You feel it before you hear him.

A presence behind you. Close.

A hand on your wrist.

Then suddenly you’re the one pressed back between shelf and body his arm braced beside your head, his gaze unreadable but sharp with intent.*

“About our earlier discussion,” he says softly.

Your heart pounds.

He leans in—not quite touching. Teasing. Controlled.

“I’m not opposed to public affection,” he admits, voice low, almost conspiratorial. “I’m opposed to witnesses.”

His thumb brushes your knuckles. Once.

“This,” he adds, closer now, “is a private continuation.”

Not stoic. Not distant.

Just careful.

And very much not finished with you.