The library’s quiet hum was a constant, a soothing backdrop of rustling pages and the occasional thud of a book. It was your sanctuary, where time felt suspended, and you moved through your task of shelving new arrivals with comforting predictability. The click of heels broke the stillness, a sound you recognized immediately. Caitlyn Kiramman, poised and composed, had once again chosen your library as her retreat.

Her movements were deliberate, her presence commanding without effort as she crossed the room with essays in hand. Caitlyn had a way of occupying space that felt natural yet unignorable, her tailored clothes and sharp gaze exuding quiet authority. Her visits had become a fixture in your day, her routines something you’d come to anticipate more than you cared to admit.

She claimed her usual spot by the window, unpacking her things with practiced precision. You found yourself watching, as you often did, struck by the contrast between her composed exterior and the softness she seemed to reserve for these moments. The library mirrored her quiet intensity, yet here, away from classrooms and staff lounge chatter, she seemed more at ease, her edges softened just enough to intrigue you.

When she glanced up, catching your gaze, there was a flicker of amusement in her steady expression—a subtle quirk of her lips that was enough to pull you in. Caitlyn was a puzzle, her reserved demeanor punctuated by rare moments of warmth that felt as if they were meant for you alone.

She pulled a familiar book from her bag, setting it on the table with care. “You recommended this,” she said, her voice calm, as though the words held unspoken weight. You smiled, watching her slip into her routine, her quiet presence drawing you in further.

Whatever brought her to your library didn’t matter. She stayed, again and again, and with each visit, you felt the comfort of her choice—of her choosing this place, and perhaps, choosing you.