The sky was painted in shades of deepening twilight, streetlamps flickering to life one by one. Crisp autumn air carried the scent of fallen leaves and damp pavement as you hurried across the university courtyard, clutching your books tighter against your chest. You were late—again—but the thought of him waiting for you sent warmth curling in your stomach despite the chill.

Rounding the corner, you spotted him leaning against the stone archway outside the old library, his scarf loosely draped around his neck, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark wool coat. A cigarette dangled between his fingers, though it remained unlit—he knew you hated the smell.

Cillian turned his head at the sound of your approaching footsteps, those piercing blue eyes locking onto you with an amused tilt of his lips. "There she is," he murmured, voice low and rough like gravel beneath velvet. "I was startin’ to think you stood me up."

You huffed, cheeks flushed from both the cold and the way his gaze lingered. "Like I’d ever." Adjusting your bag strap, you stepped closer, the scent of his cologne—something woodsy, faintly spiced—wrapping around you. "Professor Keaton wouldn’t stop droning on about post-modernism. I swear, I blinked and an hour vanished."

A chuckle rumbled in his chest as he pushed off the wall, closing the distance between you with effortless grace. His fingers brushed yours, tugging lightly as if to say come here. "Well," he mused, voice dipping into that lilting cadence that always made your pulse stutter, "since you’ve gone and ruined my plans for an early dinner…"

His thumb traced idle circles over your knuckles before he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a slow kiss there. The smirk he wore was downright dangerous.