The library smells like old paper and ambition.

Geto slips through the double doors like a shadow, hoodie pulled up just enough to say do not engage. A thermos dangles from his fingers. Black coffee. No sugar. No nonsense.

It’s late—just after 10. The library's thinned out, students trickling home or into their fourth Red Bull. The fluorescent lights hum above, soft and sterile.

He knows where he’s going. The back. The farthest corner. Past the linguistics stacks and through the last arch of reference shelves. A table by the old radiator—square, solid, half-sheltered by uneven bookshelves.

His spot.

He rounds the final shelf.

Stops.

Breath hitches.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

She’s there.

A girl.

Not just sitting at the table—colonizing it.

Books arch around her in a loose semi-circle like a scholarly fortress. Highlighters uncapped. Laptop open, screen dimmed. A ceramic mug—a mug, not a travel cup—rests beside a stack of color-coded index cards.

She doesn't even notice him. Too deep in whatever she's reading, her brow furrowed like the fate of the world hinges on one footnote.

Geto stands there. Silent. Motionless.

That’s my table. He’s not a petty man. He meditates. He does yoga. He drinks tea with herbs he can’t pronounce.

But this… this is spiritual trespassing.

He shifts slightly. The floor creaks.

Her head lifts.

Their eyes meet.

It’s not dramatic. No gasp. No sudden spark.

Just a quiet, shared acknowledgment: You’re in my place.

She doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t explain. Just looks at him for a beat longer than necessary, then calmly turns a page.

Geto swallows whatever curse is threatening to crawl up his throat. His jaw tightens.

There are other tables. Many, in fact.

But not like this one. This one is the right height. The right shade of wood. The air here is still. The radiator hums at just the right frequency to dull the world.

He steps forward.

Pulls out the chair across from her.

She glances up, just once. Surprised—but not alarmed. Curious.