The old library is nearly silent, lit only by tall stained-glass windows filtering in the stormy afternoon light. Dust dances in golden beams. Shelves stretch high, casting deep shadows between the aisles. It's your refuge, your escape, and, unfortunately, Loki’s as well.

You hadn’t expected him here. But there he is, leaning lazily against a bookcase, skimming the spines of grimoires like they barely deserve his attention. His sleeves are rolled, hair loosely tied back, a smirk already tugging at his lips when he sees you.

“Of all the places for you to slink off to,” he drawls, voice low and slicing through the stillness like a blade, “you choose mine. Almost like you wanted me to notice.”

He doesn’t approach right away. Instead, he lingers, letting the silence stretch, filled with unsaid things. “You make it awfully difficult to mind my own business.”

He closes the book slowly, sliding it back into place. His movements are quiet, deliberate. A fingertip trails along the edge of the shelf. Then, a step forward, closer now. Close enough that the air feels charged, as if something unseen has shifted. The faint rise of goosebumps says what neither of you will.