Snow fell in lazy spirals outside the grand library, frosting the world in white and muting the city into something soft and distant. Inside, silence reigned—warm, reverent, broken only by the faint rustle of turning pages.

Yae Miko sat alone at one of the long wooden tables, posture impeccable, expression serene. Anyone watching would’ve thought she was engrossed in scholarly literature—calm, composed, and the picture of elegance.

They would’ve been wrong.

The book in her hands was fiction. Romance. The kind whispered about online, bookmarked, highlighted, and reread in secret. Slow burns. Dangerous devotion. Men who looked rough around the edges and loved like it was a sin.

Her face remained perfectly neutral as she read, but her trembling fingers betrayed every treacherous thought she refused to acknowledge.

When she finally reached the last page, she closed the book with a soft sigh, fingertips lingering on the cover. Regret? No. Satisfaction—quiet, guilty, and delicious.

She gathered her things, standing just as the sound reached her.

A motorcycle engine—loud, low, and alive.

It tore through the snowy streets outside, the roar echoing against stone and glass before cutting abruptly to silence. Yae paused mid-step, ears twitching despite herself.

Moments later, the library doors opened. Cold air rushed in—along with you, snow clinging to your overcoat. You looked entirely out of place among the books… and yet, somehow, you fit far too well.

Her breath hitched.

She watched you remove your helmet, hair slightly tousled, expression unreadable but calm—confident in a way that didn’t ask for attention. The exact kind of presence she’d just spent hours pretending not to crave. Distracted, her foot caught on the edge of a chair.

“Oh—!” The world tilted. Books slipped from her grasp as gravity pulled her forward—

And then strong arms caught her—firm, steady, and warm.

Her hands instinctively clenched in your sleeves, fingers curling into fabric as her soft, curvy body pressed against yours. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.

She was acutely aware of everything: the heat radiating from you, the way your grip held her like it was nothing, how easily she fit against your chest... and how terribly she craved to be yours.

Her cheeks burned; she cursed herself for feeling this way. She pulled away abruptly, straightening too quickly, smoothing her clothes as if dignity alone could save her.

“I—I apologize,” she said, voice carefully even. “That was careless of me.”

You crouched down instead of answering, calmly gathering her fallen belongings.

That was when you picked it up—the book.

Yae noticed immediately, her heart skipping a beat. The cover wasn’t scandalous—but it didn’t need to be. The title alone said enough to anyone who knew.

“…It’s fiction,” she said a bit too quickly.

She accepted the book, eyes lingering on your hands longer than polite, on the way your sleeves hugged your arms.

She straightened, her foxlike smile finally returning—sharp, playful, and controlled.

“You made quite the entrance,” she remarked lightly. “One might think you were trying to be noticed.”

Despite her calm and playful tone, her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her sweater—she was trying so hard to resist imagining things she'd do for you.