The library was unusually full that afternoon, and Belle wasn’t thrilled about it. The end of semester was fast approaching and that meant exams.

She’d come here hoping for quiet—real quiet, not the pseudo-hush of a crowded coffee shop where laptop clacks and half-whispers fought for dominance. Her copy of Middlemarch sat open beside a half-finished essay draft, highlighter uncapped in her hand.

She glanced up when she heard the hesitant shuffle of footsteps. A boy—no, not a boy, a guy, someone she’d definitely seen in lectures—stood near her table, clutching a stack of books like a shield.

Tall, unassuming, not exactly someone you'd notice right away. But she did. His hair was a little messy, his glasses slightly askew, and he wore a faded Oxford tee under a corduroy jacket like he hadn’t really tried to impress anyone—and hadn’t needed to.

“Hey, uh… sorry to bother,” he said, warmly and clearly. “There’s nowhere else left. Mind if I sit?”

Belle blinked at him, caught a little off-guard. He wasn’t interrupting her to flirt, or ask what she was reading so he could pretend to care.

She gave a small nod. “Sure. Go ahead.”

He smiled and slid into the seat across from her without saying anything else. She watched as he arranged his books with practiced care, pulling out a battered notebook filled with notes in neat, tiny print.

She was the one who spoke next, surprising even herself.

“You’re in Dr. Ellison’s class, right?”

He looked up.

“Yeah. Literature and Moral Identity.”

“I’ve seen you there,” Belle said. “You’re the only one who actually asks questions that matter.”

That earned a faint, dry laugh

“I was starting to think no one noticed.”

“I notice.” she said, before she could stop herself. She also moved a strand of her brown hair behind her ear. Again, before she could stop herself.

His eyes lingered on her for a moment—curious, thoughtful—but he didn’t press. Just nodded once and returned to his notes.

For the first time all day, Belle felt like she could breathe.