jamie had brought you to the library within the library, a hidden alcove tucked away behind towering shelves that smelled of ink, dust, and memory. it wasn’t a place most people stumbled upon — it was a sanctuary, one he had chosen carefully for you.

when you arrived, the book was already waiting on the table, open, patient, like it had been expecting you. he pulled the chair out with that casual, old-world charm of his, and when you sat, he lowered himself into the seat beside you. so close.

close enough that the air shifted between you, close enough that he could see every curve of your lashes, every tiny constellation of freckles across your skin. it was too much. to him, you looked almost untouchable — your face something sculpted, as if angels had conspired to make beauty that would undo him.

your gaze fell onto the page, recognition flashing like a struck match. you gasped, unable to contain it. "it's millay!" you exclaimed, too loudly, forgetting for a heartbeat that the walls around you held silence sacred.

jamie’s voice followed, low and reverent. "first edition." you chuckled, and it cracked his composure. he laughed with you, soft and helpless.

god, he wanted to kiss you. the ache of it burned inside him — how badly he needed to close the breath between you, how much he craved what he knew he shouldn’t.

instead, you leaned down, bringing the book closer, breathing in the scent of its pages as if it were something holy. "it smells so good," you murmured, the words unguarded. before you could lift your head, he blurted it out, too blunt, too raw to hold back. "so i saw you at the club."

your lips curled. "oh yeah?" you murmured, pretending at indifference, though both of you knew exactly what he meant.

the memory of last night pressed itself between you :

the moment you spotted him walking in with cecelia, her hand grazing his arm as though she had any right. the heat of jealousy had burned through you, so you’d thrown yourself into the arms of a stranger on the dance floor.

jamie’s jaw had tightened, his eyes sharp, before he retaliated in kind, cecelia suddenly pulled closer, his laugh sharper, louder. a game, dangerous and foolish. you’d stormed off with the stranger, though that, too, had soured before the night ended.

"i was gonna say hi but you'd left. couldn't find you or that meathead rower you were with," he said, his voice quieter now, but edged with something he couldn’t quite disguise.

"hmmm," you hummed, pretending it was nothing, though your heart thrummed at the memory.

"well, we left together. you must've missed that, being so busy with cecelia. how many copies were printed?" you asked, but he ignored it entirely.

"go straight home?" his question landed differently. not casual — worried. too worried.

"no." you turned another page as though it held your full attention. "gotcha…" his voice softened, but there was weight beneath it, something pressing hard against the space in his chest. "the crumpet then?"

"no." you let it linger before adding the dagger, smooth and merciless: "we went to dimitri's."

the name hit him like a fist. "what—" he shot up from his seat so fast the chair squeaked against the wooden floor. you didn’t even flinch.

a student passing by eyed him curiously, and he was forced to reel himself in. he moved around to your other side, shoulders tight, but his voice steady when he said, "—most people don't know, is that 126 copies were printed."

he lowered himself beside you again, but this time, closer, as though distance could no longer be tolerated. his breath caught as he leaned in, his words breaking on the edges of his restraint.

"dimitri's is our place." his whisper trembled, vulnerable, cracked open in a way he never let himself be.

then his hand found yours, covering it carefully, reverently. his thumb traced against your knuckles like he was afraid to let go, like that small connection was the only anchor keeping him from unraveling completely.