You first felt it in the library—a gaze. Not lingering, not lewd… watchful. Every time you looked up from your book, he wasn’t staring. No. He was already reading, perfectly composed, jaw resting in his hand, fingers stained with ink and centuries. But the air shifted when he was near. Dense. Heavy. Like the moment before thunder splits the sky.

It started after you returned that worn volume on alchemy to the Bodleian. You’d cut your finger flipping a page—just a nick. You didn’t think anything of it. He did.

Since then, you’ve seen him everywhere. At your usual café. On your walk through the gardens. In a tucked-away pew at the chapel you’d once visited alone.

“Coincidence,” he said the first time you confronted him, voice velvet-smooth, eyes unreadable. “We must have similar habits.”

But he always shows up just after you. Always leaves before you do. Your window’s locked now. Your breath catches when you pass his scent in the hall. And still... You hope to see him tomorrow.