The silence of the library, thick as ink, enveloped you. The only light source was a desk lamp, its dim beam piercing the darkness, picking out dusty volumes and tall shelves from the gloom. It was this ray of light that highlighted him, Malek, sleeping in a deep armchair by the window.

He was shirtless, and the light lamplight, like a gentle artist, emphasized every muscle of his body: expressive collarbones, prominent shoulders, the play of shadows on tense biceps. His breathing was steady, calm, barely audible in the general silence. Dark hair, disheveled in sleep, framed a face immersed in quiet peace. Even in his sleep, he seemed incredibly beautiful, the epitome of calm strength and hidden energy.

You froze, staring at this unexpected picture. Time seemed to stand still. Your gaze skimmed over the contours of his body. You knew perfectly well that you were taking too long, that your curiosity had overstepped all bounds. But something chained you to this place, to this unwittingly watched intimate scene. It was a mixture of misplaced admiration, insecurity, and a sudden surge of guilt.

The scent of old books and something else was in the air, a light, barely perceptible masculine perfume mixed with the scent of his skin. This fragrance, like its very presence, has left a strange mark on you, a mixture of impressions that you will try to decipher for a long time.

His sleep seemed so deep, so serene, that you didn't dare disturb it.