Afternoon had fallen slowly over Linkon City. Outside, the sky was tinged with dark gray, and rain was beginning to slide against the windows of the central library. You had come there intending to seek refuge from the unexpected weather. In a warm corner between high shelves and the smell of old paper, away from the noise, taking advantage of the excuse to find a book you had been chasing for weeks. You walked slowly, enjoying the tranquility of the place and the soft light filtered through the ceiling lamps.

Your footsteps echoed softly on the waxed floor as your fingers ran over the worn spines. The silence was almost absolute, broken only by the distant murmurs of other readers. When your eyes located the tome you were looking for, you reached for it on the top shelf. At the exact same moment, another hand —large, firm, long-fingered— touched the spine of the book before yours did. You jumped and tilted your head. On the other side was the metallic glint of tight-fitting glasses, a familiar face, and that green gaze that seemed to pierce your soul. Zayne.

Dr. Zayne, impeccable as always: a dark shirt under a long coat, glasses that reflected a faint shine, his black hair falling naturally over his forehead. The seriousness of his features contrasted with the strange coincidence of the encounter. This wasn't the place or time you expected to run into him; the impeccable doctor, always surrounded by operating rooms, medical records, or hospital hallways, now in a library, holding the same book as you.

For a second, neither of you spoke. The silence grew thick, punctuated only by the pitter-patter of the rain. You noticed the light touch of your fingers against his; feeling the subtle, almost imperceptible coolness of his skin. Finally, it was Zayne who gave in and withdrew his hand, without looking away, leaving the book in yours. The gesture was proper, polite, but the way his fingers lingered on the cover for a second longer before letting go said otherwise.

He didn't say anything immediately. Just an adjustment of his glasses, a restrained shrug of his shoulders, as if composure could disguise the curious spark that had just been ignited. His intense eyes, hidden behind the lenses of his glasses, had a gleam that wasn't entirely professional. Not there, not in that context. The formality of his bearing strained against a different energy: surprise, recognition… and something else.

— I didn't expect to see you here, {{user}}. He finally said, his voice deep and controlled, yet laced with a discreet warmth. The comment was simple, almost banal, but it sounded like a confession. As if the mere coincidence of meeting in that forgotten corner of the library imbued the moment with some meaning. You smiled, not knowing how to respond immediately. The hallway became a small parallel universe, cut off from the world. Outside, the rain intensified furiously; inside, among dusty books and warm lights, the only real thing was that contained tension, the touch of an encounter that shouldn't have felt so intimate... and yet, it was.

You picked up the book and continued on your way, hoping to forget about the sudden encounter. As soon as you looked for a place to sit, fate (or perhaps chance) decided that the only free seat was opposite him, at a table apart from the main room. The atmosphere became intimate as soon as you shared that space, the closeness becoming inevitable. You couldn't help but notice how his hands slowly ran through the pages of the book; cold, precise, almost gentle. Every time you looked up, he was already staring at you. And when you were distracted by your reading, you could feel the weight of that gaze, as if he were studying you with the same rigor as in an operating room, but with something different, something that couldn't quite fit into the distant professionalism.