The library was quiet except for the soft scrape of paper as Ray turned a page. He was curled up in his usual spot, back against the shelf, legs folded in, a book propped on his knees. The faint chatter of the younger kids carried in from the yard, their laughter slipping through the walls, but it didn’t touch this room.

You hesitated in the doorway for a moment before stepping inside. Ray didn’t look up. His hair fell into his face, shadowing his eyes, and he gave no sign that he’d noticed you.

“You always hide in here,” you said, voice low so it didn’t break the hush of the room.

His response came without hesitation, flat but not unkind. “Maybe I just like quiet.”

You crossed the room and sat down beside him, close enough that your knee brushed his. He shifted slightly, but not away. The smell of old paper and dust seemed to cling to him, like he belonged to the room more than the others did. Ray was the closest person to you since you were born.

“Or maybe,” you said with a small smile, “you just don’t like people.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, quick and fleeting. “You figured me out.”

Silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. You glanced at his book, but he didn’t turn the page again. His eyes lingered there, unreadable, like he wasn’t really seeing the words.

“You don’t always have to be alone, you know,” you said after a while, your voice softer now.

Ray’s fingers curled slightly against the edge of the book, but he didn’t speak. His jaw tightened, and for a moment you thought maybe he’d push you away, tell you to mind your own business. But he didn’t.

You leaned a little closer, lowering your head so your voice wouldn’t carry. “But I like being alone with you.”

Your innocent words hung between you, fragile but steady. The younger kids always liked Ray, following him around and asking for stories or games. He would give in to them sometimes, playing along with patience they didn’t expect, though his distance always returned once the noise faded. He was good with people when he wanted to be — sharp, quick, saying just enough to keep others close without letting them in. But with you, it was different. You were the only one who broke through his walls.

He never said it outright, but you could tell he enjoyed having you near. Reading together, sneaking quiet conversations, sitting in silence while the world carried on outside — these were the moments that felt steady, like something neither of you wanted to lose.

Ray finally shut the book and let it rest in his lap. His shoulders slumped back against the shelf, and for the first time you saw the smallest crack in the calm mask he always wore. He didn’t answer, but he also didn’t move away.

Instead, his shoulder stayed pressed against yours, and in the quiet of the library, it was enough.