The library was nearly empty, dim with the late-hour quiet that settled like dust on the shelves. You were tucked into your usual corner, notebook open, pen in hand, trying to make sense of lecture notes that felt as disjointed as your thoughts.

You felt him before you saw him—like a drop in the atmosphere.

His presence didn’t demand attention. It stole it.

He slid into the seat across from you, no greeting, just the faint creak of the chair and the subtle scent of something familiar. That same mix of cedar and smoke that clung to him like a second skin. His hoodie sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, revealing slim wrists, ink just barely visible along one vein.

“You always sit here?” he asked, eyes not on you but on the notes scattered across the table