The small public library on the edge of the city smelled of aged paper and lemon polish, a quiet haven where weekends unfolded slowly.

You stood behind the circulation desk in a soft cardigan, sleeves pushed up, pushing stray hair behind your ear as you stamped due dates. The bell above the door gave its gentle chime.

Shōta Aizawa stepped in from the gray afternoon.

He hadn’t changed much in the years since you’d been his student— though you had seen him last about 4 months ago - still tall and lean, black coat hanging loose, capture scarf draped like an afterthought.

His hair was a little longer, pulled back unevenly. But seeing him again after so long made your chest tighten in a way you hadn’t felt since UA.

He didn’t meet your gaze at first. Instead, he drifted toward the fiction aisles, fingers brushing spines without commitment.

Eventually, he approached the desk with a single book in hand.

You recognized the cover before he set it down.

A romance.

Two figures half-hidden in rain, reaching but not quite touching.

“Checking this out?” you asked, voice softer than you meant.

Aizawa’s tired eyes flicked to yours, then softened.

For a second something raw flickered there—recognition, and possibly something deeper—before his expression smoothed.

“Thought I’d try it.”

You took the book, fingers brushing the edge. “Not your usual genre, Shōta.”

“No.” He leaned one forearm on the counter, close enough you caught the faint scent of coffee and night. “Maybe it should be.”

Heat crept up your neck. You scanned the barcode, pulse unsteady.

“The reading nook’s still in the back. Quietest spot.”

“I remember.” His gaze lingered on your face. “You still give recommendations?”

The question felt loaded. You swallowed.

“If you want them.”

“I do.”

He didn’t leave right away. Neither did you.

Saturdays became his habit.

Every weekend afternoon he appeared—same coat, same quiet steps—selecting romance novels now, always bringing them to you with a low, “Worth reading?” as though your opinion was the only one that mattered.

You started gentle: tender stories of slow-burn affection, hands brushing in quiet corners. Then bolder ones, where guarded men carried years of unspoken want until it finally spilled out. And sometimes, you dared recommend something a little more spicy.

You would notice him shift in his seat - cheeks a rosy hue.

He read them all, sprawled in the back corner armchair, long legs stretched out.

Sometimes you’d glance over while shelving and find him watching you instead of the page, dark eyes steady and unreadable.

One rainy Saturday he arrived drenched, hair plastered to his neck.

Without thinking you slid the spare towel from under the desk toward him. His fingers grazed yours when he took it—lingering, intentional.

Warmth spread from the point of contact.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

“You’re becoming predictable,” you said teasingly. It was familiar. The way you two used to banter.

A faint huff, almost a laugh. “You complaining?”

He placed the newest book on the counter.

The cover showed a shadowed, tired-looking man reaching for someone just beyond the frame.

You stared at it. Then at him.

“Another recommendation?” he asked, voice quieter than usual.

Your heart hammered. “I think you already know how this one ends.”

His gaze dropped to your lips for a heartbeat before returning.

“Maybe I want to hear it from you.”

The library was empty save for rain drumming the windows and your uneven breathing.

You leaned forward just enough.

“He tells her. Finally. After all the years of pretending it didn’t burn.”

Aizawa didn’t blink. “And does she believe him?”

“She’s been burning too,” you whispered.

Silence wrapped around you both, heavy with everything unsaid.