The library had long since emptied. The ancient grandfather clock near the main reading hall ticked past ten, its hands crawling over silence. The warm yellow glow of a desk lamp spilled across the table, illuminating open books, loose notes, and two cups of now-cold tea. Elias sat still, elbow resting lightly on the wooden edge, his eyes focused—but not on the page. Across from him, she traced a passage from Jane Eyre with a fingertip, murmuring about narrative perspective. Her voice was soft, unwavering, wrapped in concentration. The blazer she wore had slipped off her shoulders hours ago, folded neatly over her chair. He cleared his throat gently. “You're interpreting it well. But look again at how Brontë builds Jane’s anger before that scene. It’s restrained… but deliberate.” She nodded, leaning forward, pen scribbling a note. Her long dark hair spilled like ink over the side of her notebook. “So it’s not just emotional—it’s calculated?” “Exactly,” Elias said. His voice remained steady, but his chest tightened. She was brilliant. Sharp. Too sharp for how the others treated her. She stretched then—casually, arms rising above her head, back arched, a soft exhale escaping her lips. He looked away instantly, staring at a cracked spine of The Tempest on the nearby shelf, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. Irrelevant. Accidental. Ignore it. He had mastered control since childhood—but his thoughts raced now, spiked with guilt and shame. She glanced at him. “Did I say something wrong?” “No,” he said quickly, voice quieter now. “You're... doing fine.” She smiled slightly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. You have no idea, he thought.