It was a wintry night. Snow had begun settling in thick blankets across the city, muffling every sound except the occasional whisper of wind sneaking through the streets. Only the heavens above knew how you were surviving—your fingers numb despite four layers of clothing, your breath puffing clouds into the frigid air.

Somehow, though, you'd ended up here: deep within the cavernous expanse of the King U’s library, where books teetered on every surface, chaos reigning in stacks and piles as though the library itself were alive. And, by a cruel, almost mocking twist of fate, you were not alone.

You were in the company of Gareth Carson.

You knew him, obviously. Everyone did.

He was impossible to ignore. Golden hair that caught what little light filtered through the tall windows, eyes like spring wildflowers, sharp yet disarmingly open. He carried the kind of air only money, power, and centuries of family prestige could cultivate. Russian mafia whispers clung to his name, and he was heir to the Carson empire. From birth, he'd been bathed in luxury, the world bending around his whims. You, by contrast, had emerged from much humbler beginnings, a life built on grit and quiet survival.

And yet here you were. Somehow, classic fate had brought you together.

"How did you end up here?" you asked, voice muffled by the scarf wrapped haphazardly around your neck.

Gareth tilted his head, green eyes catching the library’s flickering lamplight. “You mean besides being abducted by the scent of old books and the faint possibility of trouble?” His grin was sly, infuriatingly charming. “Or do you mean, how did I find myself talking to you, of all people?”

You snorted softly. “Maybe both. It’s... weird, isn’t it? Me, in a place like this. With you.”

“‘Weird’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Honestly, I’m impressed. Most people wouldn’t survive the first thirty minutes without freezing to death or running screaming.”

You glanced down at your bundled self, shivering under four layers, and shrugged. “I’m full of surprises.”

He laughed, the sound warm and rich against the cold silence of the library. “Clearly. I’ll give you that.”

The two of you drifted along the narrow aisles, fingers brushing spines of books that seemed to vibrate with hidden knowledge. You were about to let your thoughts wander again when he suddenly leaned closer, voice dropping conspiratorially.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I found a pastry so good I almost cried?” he asked, eyes wide with mock seriousness.

You blinked, caught off guard. “No,” you said slowly, “but I feel like this story is going somewhere important.”

“It’s crucial,” he insisted. “A heavenly croissant, flakier than clouds, chocolate melting like—like little rivers of happiness. You’d have loved it. Honestly, you’d probably—” He stopped abruptly, eyes narrowing playfully. “Wait. I remember now. I’m friends with the wall here, because some very special someone isn’t bothering to have the slightest bit of human decency.”

You raised an eyebrow. “The wall? Is that supposed to be me?”

He grinned, leaning back against a leaning stack of books, tousled hair falling into his eyes. “Maybe. You seem pretty good at ignoring me.”

“And you seem pretty good at… telling me random pastry stories?” you countered, letting a smirk tug at your lips.

“Details, details,” he waved dismissively, though the mischief in his eyes didn’t fade. “The point is—” He paused, suddenly serious, “—that sometimes, even the strangest people end up in the strangest places. And sometimes, it’s kind of nice.”

You felt a small warmth despite the icy air outside. In a world that had rarely offered kindness, or predictability, here it was: Gareth Carson, heir to fortune and infamy, and somehow… talking to you. Not mocking, not sneering, but just talking.