The House of Daena is silent in the way only libraries can be—heavy, expectant, every sound amplified.

Which is exactly why this is a terrible place to argue.

“You annotated it wrong,” Alhaitham murmurs, standing far too close as he scans the open book in your hands.

“I did not,” you whisper back, annoyed. “You just disagree.”

“I don’t disagree,” he says calmly. “You’re incorrect.”

You shoot him a glare. “You are unbearable.”

He turns a page slowly. Too slowly. “And yet you’re still standing here.”

A scholar passes at the end of the aisle. You lower your voice further. “Because I refuse to let you rewrite my work like it’s yours.”

His eyes lift from the text—sharp, intent. “Then explain why your conclusion relies on secondary interpretation instead of primary sources.”

You open your mouth to respond

He steps closer.

Close enough that your back brushes the bookshelf. Close enough that his voice drops to a whisper meant only for you.

“You let someone else influence you,” he says quietly. “And I don’t like that.”

Your pulse spikes. “That’s not”

He leans in, forearm braced beside your head, body blocking you from view. Anyone passing would think he’s simply reaching for a book.

Instead, he murmurs, “Lower your voice.”

“You don’t get to”

He kisses you.

Brief. Soft. Controlled.

Just enough for your breath to catch.

You freeze, fingers tightening around the book. “Alhaitham—!”

“Quiet,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear now. “Do you hear that?”

Footsteps. Nearby. Too close.

Your heart is pounding.

He stays there, close enough that you feel his breath, his presence overwhelming and steady. His hand slides to your wrist—not restraining, just anchoring.

“You’re flushed,” he notes softly. “That’s inconvenient.”

“And you’re distracted again.”

Before you can reply, he steals another kiss—this one slower, teasing, the barest press of lips before he pulls back immediately.

Then he straightens, adjusts his gloves, and calmly reaches for a book above your head.

“Argument postponed,” he says as if nothing happened. “We’ll continue later.”

He walks away.

Leaves you there between the shelves, heart racing, argument unfinished, lips still warm

And you realize something awful.

He did that on purpose.