Rain tapped faintly against the tall stained-glass windows, casting soft patterns across the library floor. It was quiet, thick with the scent of parchment and dust, the kind of silence that held everything unsaid.

Rayne sat beside you, as always—never too close, never far. His book was open, but his eyes weren’t reading. You were trying to focus, too, but your pulse betrayed you every time his sleeve brushed yours or his breath stirred the stillness between pages.

There was a kind of rhythm to these afternoons now. He’d always find you. Always sit near, claiming it was for studying. He never said much, but his presence was steady, unshifting. Like he was always listening.

Your hand hesitated over your notes, and his gaze flicked toward you for just a second too long.

And then, quiet—barely a whisper, meant only for you:

“…I like this.”