The library is technically off-limits after hours.

Which makes it better.

Dust floats through slanted gold light from the tall windows. The world outside feels distant — irrelevant. You’re cross-legged in the abandoned corner, flipping through a 1963 yearbook you found wedged behind outdated encyclopedias.

Rhonda is pacing in front of you like she’s presenting a closing argument.

“Page twelve,” she says, pointing sharply. “Three girls labeled ‘Most Likely to Marry Well.’ Not ‘Most Likely to Succeed.’ Not ‘Most Likely to Lead.’ Marry. Well.”

You bite back a smile.

“Don’t,” she warns.

“I’m not laughing. I’m admiring your passion.”

She narrows her eyes but drops down beside you anyway, shoulder almost brushing yours as she scans another page.

“And the hair,” she mutters. “The hairspray alone could’ve altered climate patterns.”

“You had the same hairstyle.”

She freezes.

“That is not the point.”

You grin and turn the page — and then you still.

There she is.

Seventeen. Sharp-eyed. Already defiant. Debate team photo.

Your fingers hover near the image.

“You look like you’re about to start a revolution.”

“I was,” she says. Softer this time.

When you glance up, she isn’t looking at the yearbook anymore.

She’s looking at you.

Not joking. Not analyzing.

Studying.

“What?” you ask quietly.

She straightens, leaning back against the shelf, arms crossing like armor snapping into place.

“You know,” she says slowly, “if you were alive in my time, I would’ve stolen you from whatever varsity idiot tried to claim you.”

You blink. “Stolen me?”

“Liberated,” she corrects. “From mediocrity.”

You close the yearbook gently. “Bold of you to assume I’d be claimed.”

Her jaw tightens slightly. “You’re exactly the type they’d gravitate toward. Smart. Self-possessed. Intimidating in a way they’d call ‘interesting.’”

“And you?” you ask.

She shrugs, but her eyes flicker. “I don’t compete. I outmaneuver.”

A quiet settles between you.

You shift closer so your shoulders rest against the same shelf.

Your shoulder brushes hers.

She goes very still.

Doesn’t move away.

“If you had stolen me,” you say carefully, “what then?”

She stares ahead, but her voice lowers.

“I would’ve walked you home. Made sure no one talked over you. Told anyone who tried to shrink you that they were making a mistake.”

A pause.

“I wouldn’t have let you disappear.”

The sincerity slips out before she can catch it.

“You sound certain,” you murmur.

“I am.”

You nudge her shoulder lightly. “You don’t rescue people, remember?”

“I didn’t say rescue,” she says. Her eyes meet yours now. “I said claim.”

The word lands differently.

You hold her gaze. “You can’t steal someone who wants to go.”

Her breath shifts.

“No,” she agrees softly. “You can’t.”

Your knee brushes hers.

She doesn’t move.

Her hand rests beside yours on the floor — close enough to feel the warmth.

“You would’ve been trouble in the sixties,” she says, but her voice is warm now.

“I would’ve survived.”

A faint, almost proud smile. “I know.”

Your pinky inches closer until it grazes hers.

She inhales sharply.

But instead of pulling away, she hooks her finger around yours like it’s instinct. Like it’s always been there.

“Don’t get sentimental,” she mutters.

“You started it.”

“For you?” she says quietly, thumb pressing lightly against your knuckle.

“Absolutely.”

And when you rest your head against her shoulder—

She lets you.

Completely.