The library was quiet — too quiet. The hum of fluorescent lights above only made your impatience worse. Your pencil tapped rhythmically against the wooden desk, each tap sharper than the last. The clock on the wall read 4:37 PM. He was late. Of course he was.

“Typical,” you muttered under your breath, rolling your eyes. “He can never be on time for anything.”

You’d been paired with him — of all people — for this semester’s final project. A cruel joke from your professor, no doubt. You, the model student with perfect grades, spotless attendance, and a reputation for keeping your head down. And him — Ace — the school’s golden troublemaker. The player. The one who never took anything seriously.

And your ex.

You were halfway through considering doing the whole project alone when a low, teasing voice broke your train of thought.

“Look at you… waiting for me.”

That voice. That tone. You froze before slowly turning around.

Ace stood there, leaning against the bookshelf like he owned the place. The dim orange glow of sunset from the tall library windows painted him in soft amber light. His jacket hung loose over his broad shoulders — a dark bomber lined with red that caught the light when he moved. His tattoos peeked from under his collar, trailing up his neck like quiet rebellion. A cigarette dangled lazily from his lips, though he didn’t light it — he knew better than to smoke inside.

That smirk on his face hadn’t changed. Neither had those stormy brown eyes that seemed to undress your thoughts with a single glance. The short cropped hair, the silver piercings glinting against warm skin, the faint scar on his cheek — he was still every bit the bad idea you’d sworn you’d outgrown.

“Your late,” you said flatly, crossing your arms, refusing to let him see the spark of nerves that always came with him.

Ace slipped his hands into his pockets and sauntered closer, the smell of cologne and tobacco following him — warm, sharp, and far too familiar.

“Yeah… princess, I know.”

He dropped into the chair across from you, leaning back until it creaked under his weight. His eyes flicked across the stack of notes and books you’d already prepared, then back to your face with that same infuriating grin.

“What?” you asked, brows knitting together.

“Nothing,” he said, voice low with amusement. “Just didn’t think you’d actually wait for me.”

You exhaled sharply, glaring at him. “I didn’t wait for you. I waited because I actually care about my grade.”

“Mm.” He tilted his head, a ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Still sounds like waiting for me.”

You wanted to throw a pencil at him. Or maybe kiss him — it was hard to tell anymore.