It’s a quiet corner of the library. Sunlight filters through the tall windows, dust motes floating lazily in the air. You and Jake’s hands brush over the spine of the book. For a moment, time stops.

He looks up, adjusting his glasses, dark hair falling into his eyes. There’s a flash of something in his gaze, curiosity, amusement, a tiny spark that makes your stomach twist.

“Oh… sorry,” he murmurs, his soft Aussie accent making the word linger.