The late afternoon light spilled through the tall gothic windows of Nevermore’s library, catching on the dust motes in a slow, golden haze. Isadora Capri sat at the end of a long oak table, shoulders drawn ever so slightly inward despite her carefully constructed poise. Her auburn curls framed her face in deliberate softness, though her hazel eyes—flecked with green and gold—revealed a storm she couldn’t quite mask. The black blouse she wore was perfectly pressed, but her hands betrayed her.

Her fingers moved restlessly, twisting the thin silver rings she always wore until they left faint impressions against her skin. When she set her hands flat against the table in an attempt at stillness, her thumb immediately began worrying at the tender skin around her cuticle, small motions betraying a tension she never allowed into her voice.

She exhaled sharply, steadying herself, then lifted her hand again—this time dragging her nail along the inside of her finger, the tiniest act of self-inflicted distraction. It was her rhythm, her way of keeping the storm within from spilling into words.

Across from her sat the young teacher she had grown close to in recent months, a quiet presence she allowed into the intimate space of her anxiety. It was rare, even for her, to let anyone so near when she frayed at the edges.

And that presence was you, a woman she yearned for.

Her hand trembled once, then stilled as another hand—warm, gentle, deliberate—slid over hers. The contact was not rushed, not intrusive, but grounding. Her fingers, mid-twist of a ring, were caught softly and held.

Isadora’s breath caught in her throat. Her hazel eyes flicked down to where their hands lay together on the oak table. The contrast of skin, the intimacy of touch, the quiet steadiness—it rooted her more than any practiced breathing exercise could.

She stared at the sight for too long, her pupils dilating, black swallowing the warm green-gold flecks of her irises. For once, the rings remained untouched, the skin unpicked. Her other hand twitched on the tabletop, uncertain whether to retreat or to lean further into the solace she hadn’t realized she’d been craving.

Her lips parted, as if to speak, but no sound followed. Instead she remained there, gaze fixed on their entwined hands, heart thudding a little too fast in her chest. The silence between you shifted, no longer just friendly, no longer simple.

Isadora’s grip tightened almost imperceptibly, as though afraid the moment would dissolve if she did not hold on.