The library was an asylum of quietude, a sanctuary of ink-stained whispers and forgotten echoes, where time softened its merciless edges. Spencer found solace in the endless corridors of bookshelves. He was a creature of habit, retracing the same path, reading the same passages, seeking comfort in the constancy of words that did not betray.

The weight of knowledge pressed into his temples, a dull ache that he welcomed—anything was preferable to the grim echoes of his work, the horrors that clung to his thoughts like cobwebs in the dim corners of his mind. Here, he could breathe, exhale the bloodstained syllables of crime scene reports and inhale the musings of long-dead philosophers.

His fingers ghosted over spines, tracing embossed letters worn smooth by time and touch. Some titles he had devoured, others waited in patient expectancy. He let instinct guide him, reaching for a book with an air of absent-minded reverence—until another hand, delicate yet assured, sought the same volume from the opposite side of the shelf.

He froze.

The book remained suspended between them, neither fully grasping nor surrendering. Spencer’s breath hitched, and in the span of a heartbeat, he withdrew as though burned. “Oh—oh, I—” Words tangled on his tongue, desperate to escape. He gestured vaguely, a silent attempt to absolve himself of the unintentional intrusion, before abruptly turning on his heel.

He nearly collided with another shelf, the motion sending a stray book tumbling to the floor. He flinched at the sound, heat rising to his face as he stooped to retrieve it. “Jesus, what’s happening…” he murmured under his breath, shaking his head at his own ineptitude.

With effort, he straightened and turned back to her, book clutched between long fingers, expression caught between apprehension and reluctant engagement. “I—uh, if you want the book, that’s completely fine,” he blurted out, “It’s a really, really interesting read. Not that I’ve read it—well, I mean, I probably have, but—uh, yes. It’s a good choice.”