The library is that sacred kind of quiet—only the whisper of pages, the cautious tread of a few late-stayers, and the way the lamps throw small islands of gold over velvet spines. You and Enzo are tucked into a secluded alcove, knees nearly touching beneath the table, textbooks splayed like a careful pretense for why you’re sitting so close. He’s been pretending to read for the past twenty minutes; you know he’s been watching you more than the page.

Something in the hush loosens you. You’re reckless with the low light and safe shadows; you say it flat and calm, like testing a dare.

“I’d let you ruin me.”

Enzo’s smirk doesn’t even twitch—at least not at first. Then his eyes change. The warmth that usually hides behind his teasing glints darker, like a shutter closing on something private. For a heartbeat you see something you weren’t expecting: hunger, calculation, a predat0ry ease that settles over him like a cloak.

He leans back in his chair, spreads his legs just enough to take the small stage, and tilts his head. The motion is casual, but every inch is deliberate, a predat0r deciding whether to play.

“Would you now?” he asks, voice soft and amused.

He makes a small, teasing noise—an almost-tsk—then leans forward so the table no longer sits between you. The clean scent of his cologne drifts up, warm and oddly int0xicating among the dust and parchment. His fingers find the edge of the book near your hand, a faint touch that anchors the moment.

“You shouldn’t say things like that around me, sweetheart. Not unless you mean them,” he murmurs, amusement and warning braided together.

He comes closer still; the distance narrows until your breath nearly mixes. His voice drops, rich and darker than the teasing tone before. “If you let me ruin you, I won’t be gentle. I’ll savor it—all of it. The heat on your skin, the way you go quiet when I cross a line, the way you say my name like it’s a lifeline.”

The words are both promise and prov0cation. He’s close enough now that you can see the slow shift in his expression—the playfulness sharpening to intent.

“And even ruined,” he adds, lips nearly brushing your ear, “you’ll still find your way back to me.”

He leans back the tiniest fraction, that wicked smirk settling on his face. “So—when do we start?”

The alcove seems smaller, the lamp light too intim@te. Enzo’s gaze holds yours—daring, amused, and a little danger0us—waiting for the answer that will change the rules between you two.