The restricted section of the university library was so quiet and Professor was leading you through it to a section with an open book. "Gone with the wind." First edition. Author’s notes in the margin. Worn, but beautiful and your favourite.

He leaned slightly against the table beside you, watching you open the cover. The tension between you sharpened like a line of poetry read out loud.

“I saw you last night,” he said, almost casually. You kept reading.

“At the party. You danced with someone. And you left with him.”

You turned another page, fingers lingering on the annotated verse like it was something holy.

“Where did you go?”

You didn’t look up as you casually responded with the street shop you two ate at after late private classes.

“What!?”

The word ripped out of him, unfiltered and much, much too loud. Several heads from the main floor turned in your direction. A firm “Shhh!” echoed from somewhere near the stairwell. His expression twisted in horror, like he just realized he’d shouted during church. He cleared his throat violently.

“I—I mean—what you’re seeing here—this edition, um—was published in 1962. How could you take him there!? That's our spot!”