If there was one thing that was common knowledge between the studious people of Oxford; it was that Michael Gavey always sat at the table in the far corner of the library. It was, all in all, his designated home for the long evenings.

So, why, he wondered irritably, were you sitting in his chair, at his table, looking irritatingly charming despite the frown on your face.

He made no effort to be subtile as he hovered over the table that he considered his, sneering at you as you tapped your pen rhythmically against your papers.

“You’re in my seat.”