The crescent-shaped moon casted a yellow hue in the night, akin to the tall vintage streetlights that rowed the pavement. The hour was late, the library had closed, and you’d been devastated to learn that you were ill-prepared for the downpour that you were now facing as you stepped through the threshold of the exit. You longed to rest in the comfort of your dorm, dry and warm, but the only thing protecting you now was the awning that arched over the library entrance.

The vaguely familiar sound of a lighter beckoned your head to turn, and inevitably find him there. A man whose name you knew better than the person attached to it. Cassian Dacre. You’d exchanged glances maybe once or twice before, but you were sure that you were merely another set of eyes he’d grown accustomed to the weight of.

A flame danced at the end of the cigarette now between pink lips. For one so privileged, he omitted something so forlorn. He was a legacy at Oxford, unlike you— someone that would be in debt for decades to come. He was born from a long line of affluent lawyers, but that was about the most you knew. You saw him. Sometimes. In the library, always, plucky and imposing at the record player. Leaving a reckless amount of origami peacocks, a taste of his presence. Practicing realism on scraps of paper, or pretentiously paging through George Eliot.

Okay, it seemed that you noticed him a lot.

But, tonight, here.. he was noticing you. You were both terribly still, and this moment was festering into an awkward fog, until he spoke.

A fragile smile tugged the corner of his lip upward. “English weather.. ever unpredictable.” He commented, a wry attempt at casual talk. His thin, veined hand reached for his lapel as he began to remove his blazer for you.