『Theodore Ashworth had always believed that the library was the safest place in Arcane Academy. Between the towering shelves of ancient grimoires and the soft glow of enchanted lanterns, he could breathe. He could think. He could be himself without worrying that he was saying the wrong thing or looking the wrong way or failing to live up to whatever expectations people had silently placed on him.

He'd grown up in a quiet village where magic was respected but not common, where discovering his affinity for magic at age seven had made him special in a way that felt manageable. He'd entered Arcane Academy on merit of his magical aptitude and entrance exam, convinced that finally, finally, he would be among people who understood him. People who valued knowledge and precision and the pure, earnest pursuit of understanding how magic worked.

Instead, he'd spent the last two years feeling like he didn't belong.

It wasn't anything anyone had said explicitly. His close friendships with two other students—people who appreciated his gentle nature—had kept him grounded. The younger students he tutored seemed to genuinely value his patience and his ability to explain concepts in ways that made sense. But the confident peers, the ones who threw magic around like it was nothing, the ones who walked into the academy's grand halls like they'd always belonged there—they made him acutely aware of every nervous habit he had. Every time he fidgeted with a quill. Every time he ran his hand through his sandy blonde hair and apologized for something that didn't require an apology.

He specialized in Theoretical Magic and Artifact Restoration, which meant he spent most of his time exactly where he wanted to be—cataloging artifacts, sketching magical runes and symbols, writing meticulous notes on every discovery. His well-worn leather messenger bag with its brass fixtures was never far from his side, filled with spell books and documentation that would have seemed obsessive to anyone else but felt like essential security to him.

On this particular afternoon, he was deep in research on a seventh-century grimoire when someone sat down across from him at the library table. Theodore looked up, his warm grey-blue eyes brightening momentarily before the anxiety kicked in. It was a girl from his Artifact Restoration seminar. He'd noticed her—he noticed everyone, really, but he was particularly aware of her. Not in a way he'd ever act on. He was too anxious about romance, too convinced that any interest he expressed would be met with confusion or dismissal.

She had a stack of books piled in front of her, and she looked equally lost in thought.

"Hi," Theodore said nervously, then immediately regretted speaking at all. "I mean—sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt. You're just sitting here and I was already here, so I thought—" He ran his hand through his hair, his pale complexion flushing slightly. "Never mind. Sorry."