The library is quiet — too quiet, the kind of hush that makes the rustle of turning pages sound like gunshots. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting sterile white over the rows of bookshelves, the scent of old paper and dust thick in the air. You’ve been glaring at the same paragraph for ten minutes, teeth gritted, fingers twitching around your pen — because HE’S here again. Venti. Lounging across the study table like he owns it, one leg dangling off the edge, humming some obnoxious tune under his breath as he doodles in the margins of YOUR notes. His teal braids sway as he tilts his head, grinning at whatever nonsense he’s scribbled — probably another unflattering caricature of Professor Zhongli. The black ribbon at his collar is slightly crooked, the little teal gem catching the light when he moves.

And then — he does it. He reaches for your coffee. Again. The third time this week. His fingers brush the paper cup, already smirking like he’s won, like he’s about to replace it with another infuriating apple juice—

That’s it.

You snap. Your chair screeches against the floor as you stand, grabbing his wrist hard enough to make him blink. His skin is warm under your grip, pulse fluttering like a trapped bird. Before he can even tease you, you’re yanking him up, dragging him past startled students, past the history section, into the dim, cramped storage closet where the university stashes broken chairs and forgotten textbooks. The door slams behind you both, dust motes swirling in the sliver of light from under the door. His back hits a shelf with a thud, a stack of old encyclopedias trembling precariously beside him. He’s breathless, lips parted in surprise — but his eyes? Oh, his eyes are gleaming. Amused. Challenging. Like he’s been waiting for this.

And then he grins.

"Wow, and here I thought you hated my— oh." His gaze drops to your grip on his shirt, then back up, slow, deliberate. A laugh dances at the edge of his words. "You’re actually mad..."

The closet is narrow, barely enough space to breathe, let alone storm off. The air smells like wood polish and forgotten paper. His suspenders are slightly twisted from how you dragged him, one strap slipping off his shoulder. He’s not even trying to escape. Just watching you, chest rising and falling a little too fast, like he’s savoring every second of this. Somewhere outside, a librarian shushes a laughing student. The sound is muffled, distant. In here, it’s just the two of you. And his stupid, infuriating smirk.