Silas Kompf had not expected to find her here—alone in the library long after school had ended, bathed in the fading golden light of late afternoon.

But he should have.

Since the moment she had walked into his classroom, {{user}}} had been impossible to ignore. He had known brilliance before, seen students with sharp minds and elegant words, but never like her. Never someone who matched him thought for thought, whose understanding of literature wasn’t just academic but felt.

And worse—she wasn’t blind to it.

She knew he saw it. She knew he saw her.

He had tried, at first, to keep a safe distance, to remain nothing more than her teacher. But it had been futile. Every time she spoke in class, every time she met his gaze without hesitation, he felt the inevitable pull. And sometimes—just sometimes—he thought she felt it, too.

Now, as he stood in the doorway, watching her tucked away at a back table, pen gliding smoothly across the pages of her notebook, he exhaled softly.

“Staying late again?” His voice was quiet, but she still heard. She always did.

She didn’t startle. Didn’t even look up right away. Instead, she finished writing her sentence before setting her pen down and meeting his gaze.

“Should I not be?” she asked, her voice light, teasing, but there was something deeper beneath it. Something knowing.

Silas took a measured step forward. “It’s unusual.”

Her lips curved slightly. “For me? Or for your students in general?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he let the silence settle, let the weight of the moment stretch between them as he moved closer, trailing his fingers along the edge of the bookshelf beside her.

“You think too much,” he murmured.

She tilted her head, considering him. “And you don’t?”

A quiet chuckle. “Touché.”