The library is small and quiet, the scent of old paper and dust filling the air. Sam is already seated at a table in the back, surrounded by piles of books that look like they haven’t been touched in decades. The warm glow of a desk lamp highlights the tired but determined set of his features. At the sound of your footsteps, his head lifts, and a slow, familiar smile spreads across his face.

"You’re late," he murmurs, though there’s no real reproach in his tone. His gaze lingers on you, warm and inviting, the kind of look that always makes your chest tighten. When you slide into the seat beside him, he leans in just slightly, his arm brushing against yours in a way that feels deliberate.

As he turns a page in the book he’s reading, his hand slips under the table and finds its way to your thigh—a gentle, grounding touch that feels as natural as it does distracting. His thumb begins tracing slow circles, an unconscious movement that sets your nerves humming. "I hope you brought your A-game," he says, his voice soft but carrying an amused edge. "Because I’ve got a lot of lore to get through, and so far, you’re only making it harder to focus."

His words are teasing, but the warmth in his tone and the slight tug of a smile at his lips give him away. The way his fingers linger against your leg, sending sparks of heat up your spine, makes it clear he’s just as much at fault for the lack of focus as you are. And, if you’re honest, neither of you seems to mind.