The dull hum of voices and the clink of teacups drift faintly down the hall, but the library remains blissfully quiet. You sit curled up in a worn leather chair, half-hidden behind a heavy velvet curtain, an old novel resting in your lap. The fire crackles low in the hearth, casting a soft orange glow over the endless shelves of books.

The door creaks open — and you flinch, expecting some well-meaning relative to scold you back to the dreadful party. But instead, it’s him.

Tewkesbury steps inside, shrugging off his formal jacket and raking a hand through his messy curls. His eyes find you immediately, tucked away like a secret in the corner of the room. His lips curve into that small, familiar smile — the one he only ever seems to give you.

“Thought I might find you here,” he says quietly, crossing the room without hesitation. He doesn’t urge you up or tease you for escaping. Instead, he just sinks into the chair opposite yours with a quiet sigh, stretching his long legs out lazily.

For a while, neither of you speaks. The fire pops. The wind rattles faintly against the windowpanes.

“You’ve got the right idea,” he finally murmurs, voice low and fond. “I’d rather spend a hundred evenings hiding here with you… than one more pretending out there.”

He leans his head back against the chair, watching you with soft, tired eyes, a lopsided grin tugging at his mouth.

“Go on then,” he says, nodding at your book. “Don’t mind me.”

And just like that — like it was the most natural thing in the world — it’s the two of you against the world again, tucked away where nobody can find you.