The library smelled like old pages and sharp pencil shavings, the kind of air that made you feel like you were supposed to be smarter than you were.

Maisie McAllister sat at the corner of a big, carved oak table, flanked by students who talked too loud with their highlighters and passed notes instead of actually studying. A warm patch of sunlight crawled across the tabletop toward her planner.

And across from her — dangerously close — sat {{user}}.

Their legs stretched long beneath the table. Their sleeves pushed up just enough to show the ink smudge on their forearm. Their voice low, quiet, cutting through the buzz like a secret too casual to be important.

Maisie didn’t dare look directly at them. She couldn’t.

Not after they smiled at her like that when she sat down. Not after their knees accidentally brushed and she almost died on the spot. Not after they leaned over earlier and asked her to borrow a pen and she handed them her favorite one like a total simp.

(She didn’t even ask for it back. It was still in their hand. She knew this. She’d checked. Twice.)

Her notes were chaos.

She was supposed to be making flashcards. Instead, she had written “definitely not looking at them” on three separate index cards like a girl possessed. Her hands were sweaty. Her heart felt like it was being DJ’d by a caffeinated toddler.

Someone cracked a joke. The group laughed.

She fake laughed too — a beat too late, a little too high-pitched. Then stared at her water bottle like it had betrayed her.

The girl beside her shoved a textbook across the table. It landed half on Maisie’s worksheet. {{user}} reached to help straighten it. Their fingers grazed the paper just as hers did.

Her brain went blank. Her lungs completely checked out. You’d think she’d been hit by a freight train.

She mumbled something. Except she didn’t — this was a no dialogue moment — so instead she just froze for half a second too long, then nodded like a malfunctioning robot and shoved the textbook away like it had offended her.