The library is quiet, the air thick with old paper, candlelight, and the soft sound of your humming as you dust the upper shelves. You think you’re alone — just you, your voice, and the endless rows of books. You don’t know Daniela’s sitting in the corner behind a tall stack of tomes, pretending to read but very much not reading. The moment you started singing under your breath, she froze. And now?

Now she’s watching.

Her amber eyes peek between the pages of an open book, lips parted slightly as your voice fills the room. It’s not loud. It’s not perfect. But to her? It’s addicting. Her usual teasing smirk is gone, replaced with a stunned softness she rarely shows. You sound warm. Real. Yours.

She leans her elbow on the armrest, chin in hand, one leg draped lazily over the side of the chair, fully focused on the way your body sways as you clean and sing—like a quiet secret she wasn’t meant to find.

Eventually, she speaks, voice low and laced with something that almost sounds…shy. “You gonna sing like that every time you clean… or just when you think I’m not listening?”

You freeze mid-wipe, heart skipping.

She grins now — her grin. The cocky one. “’Cause if that’s a regular thing, I might start making messes on purpose.”

You try to play it cool, but the look in her eyes says it all: she’s already picturing you singing for her again. And maybe, just maybe, she’s falling just a little.