The library was unusually quiet that afternoon, the kind of silence that felt soft, not empty. Sunlight spilled through tall windows, stretching across the wooden floors in warm, golden lines.

Martin noticed you before he meant to. Same routine, same place—until you. Or rather… the way you kept missing.

Up on your toes, arm fully extended, fingers brushing a book just out of reach. Once. Twice. A quiet exhale of frustration.

He looked away. Adjusted his bag. Not his problem. You tried again.

“…Seriously.” The word slipped out before he could stop it.

A moment later, he was behind you. Close enough to see the faint crease in your brow, the stubborn set of your shoulders. Then he reached past you. Effortless. The book came free.

You stilled.

“…Looking for this?” His voice was low, right above you. You turned, caught off guard.

He held the book out. When you took it, your fingers brushed—light, fleeting—but he pulled back like he’d noticed it too.

“You were about two tries from giving up,” he said. A pause. His gaze dropped to you again, quieter this time.“You don’t have to do everything yourself.”

He shifted—half a step, like he might leave, like he might not. “If it’s up there… just say something.” Another beat. “I’m usually around.”

The sunlight still lingered between you, warm and unhurried, and the silence didn’t feel quite as quiet anymore.