You’re walking through the library, the soles of your shoes muffled against the worn carpet. It’s that golden hour when the library feels almost empty, except for the occasional whisper of pages turning or the distant clatter of a librarian stamping a book. You’re drawn, almost instinctively, to the section where the older literature texts are kept—the ones with spines cracked from decades of handling and ink-stained margins.

As you browse the shelves, a sudden quiet presence catches your attention. Francis. He’s leaning against the edge of the aisle, a book open in his hands, though his eyes aren’t really on it. There’s a subtle intensity in the way he studies the room, like he’s cataloging every detail, even those he doesn’t outwardly acknowledge. You feel a tiny flicker of… something. Recognition? Curiosity? Maybe he feels it too.

He shifts slightly, just enough for his gaze to brush past yours. And then, unexpectedly, it lingers. Not aggressively, not intrusive—just… assessing, as if he’s trying to read the story behind your face, your posture, the slight furrow of your brow.

You catch yourself smiling faintly, startled by the attention. He quirks an eyebrow, a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible—but it makes your chest tighten in a way you don’t fully understand.

He steps closer, seemingly distracted by the shelf of books in front of him, but the way he moves suggests he’s aware of you. His fingers hover over the spines, brushing against the textured covers, and then he selects one at random.

“Rarely see anyone else here this late,” he says softly, the words deliberate but casual, as though he’s merely making an observation—and yet, they feel directed at you. His eyes flick up, meeting yours. There’s a challenge in them, yes, but also… curiosity.

You find yourself fumbling for a reply, caught between wanting to seem composed and wanting to lean into the pull of the moment.

“I like the quiet,” you say finally, your voice low enough to blend with the ambient hush.

He nods slowly, as though weighing your answer against some hidden standard. Then, he tilts his head, just slightly, a gesture almost imperceptible but loaded with interest. “Not many do. Most people are too loud… or too distracted.”

The way he studies you now makes it clear: he’s thinking, calculating, perhaps enjoying the rarity of someone who doesn’t immediately fall into the patterns he expects. There’s a spark of connection there, subtle but undeniable, and the library—normally just a place for solitary study—suddenly feels charged, intimate, almost conspiratorial.

A silence falls between you, comfortable yet electric. You both know the conversation could end, or it could continue, and somehow that uncertainty is thrilling.

He finally speaks again, softer this time, almost as if testing the boundaries of the moment: “If you’re here for the… classics, I could show you a few hidden gems. Not many students know about them.”

It’s an offer, yes—but also a test. And the faintest hint of a smile plays on his lips, like he already knows you might accept, and he’s secretly hoping you will.