The hushed stillness of the library was a sanctuary, broken only by the soft rustle of pages and the frantic, rhythmic tearing of your own. You sat hunched at the worn oak table, a sacrificial daisy of lined notebook paper clutched in your fingers, its petals falling one by one in ragged scraps onto the open textbook below.

“He loves me…”

The whisper was a breath, a fragile hope sent out into the quiet air. You ripped the piece away, your heart a tight, anxious knot in your chest.

“He loves me not…”

The words were heavier, a stone dropping into the pit of your stomach. Another tear. Another piece of your courage discarded. The pile of “nots” was growing, a paper graveyard of your own doubts.

A shadow fell over the table, and you flinched, but it was just your friend, her brow furrowed in concern. “{{user}}, what are you doing?” Her voice was a low murmur, trying not to disturb the sacred silence.

You couldn’t meet her eyes, your gaze fixed on the mutilated paper in your hands. “Seeing if Ajax loves me or not,” you replied, the confession tasting like ash. You continued the ritual, a desperate, superstitious prayer. “He loves me…”

“Why don’t you just ask him?” The question was so simple and so logical, and it made you feel foolish beyond measure.

The memory of his teasing grin, the way he could turn your sincerest emotion into a joke for his own amusement, flashed behind your eyes. “He could lie about it,” you said, your voice barely audible, “or make fun of me. As usual.” The last two words were a sigh of resigned defeat, a story you’d lived too many times.

“Right,” your friend said softly, a touch of pity in her tone that made you shrink. “Well, I’ll see you later.” She left you alone again with your pathetic ritual, the silence now feeling judgemental instead of safe.

You took a shaky breath, isolating the last few precious pieces of paper. This was it. The final verdict. Your thumb found the next seam.

“He loves me…”

A tear. A flicker of desperate, illogical hope.

“He loves me not…”

Another tear. The hope guttered, threatening to go out. You swallowed hard, your throat tight. There was one piece left. One final word that would somehow define everything. You braced yourself, your finger poised on the edge.

“He–”

The word died in your throat. A new voice, low and smooth and intimately familiar, cut through the silence from directly behind your chair. It wasn’t a library voice. It was a voice meant for crowded hallways and private jokes, and it sent a jolt straight down your spine.

“Loves you.”

You froze, every muscle locking in place. The world narrowed to the sound of that voice and the frantic hammering of your own heart. Slowly, so slowly, you turned in your seat.

And there he was. Ajax. Leaning against the bookshelf, arms crossed over his chest, looking for all the world like he owned the place. And he was smirking, a slow, knowing, utterly devastating curve of his lips that made the air leave your lungs in a rush. He’d been watching. He’d heard it all.