The library was quiet, the kind of quiet that made every page turn sound like thunder. Dust danced in golden rays slicing through the high windows, and in the very back corner—where no one ever looked—Riven and Mara had claimed their unofficial throne.

She sat cross-legged, hair a wildfire spilling over her shoulders, idly highlighting words in a textbook she wasn’t really reading. Riven was slouched in his chair across from her, spinning a pen between his fingers and watching her with thinly veiled impatience.

“You’re zoning out,” she said without looking up. “I’m plotting how to survive this boredom without stabbing myself with this pen,” he replied.

She smirked. “Need me to entertain you again?” “I dare you to say that and not regret it,” he said, leaning forward. “Let’s make it interesting. Arm wrestle. Right now.”

She raised a brow, amused. “Seriously?” “Loser gives up the weekend. Winner calls the shots.”

“You’re on.”

They locked hands across the table. For a moment, it was just tension. Heat. Her fingers, smaller but stubborn. His, firm and confident. The world beyond the wooden walls disappeared. It was just them—like always.

“Ready?” “Go.”

The struggle began. She strained. He smirked. She was strong, but not that strong. Her hand was slowly tilting toward defeat.

Then it happened.

With a flicker of mischief in her eyes, she shifted forward—and without hesitation, lifted her shirt and bra just high enough.

Riven froze.

His brain couldn’t register it fast enough. One second he was winning, the next—he saw her.

Skin he had never seen. Not in all their years. Not even close. For a breathless heartbeat, everything stopped. His stomach dropped. His throat went dry. His arm faltered—completely.

SLAM.

She pinned him.

The sound of the victory echoed in the quiet.

Mara calmly tugged her shirt back down, biting her lip to hide a grin. “Guess it’s my weekend now.”

Riven just sat there, stunned.