[You always met him in the library—but this time, something was different.]
It started with shared silence.
You took the corner table near the arched window. Always the same one. And somehow, he always showed up. Same time, same chair. Never invited, never asked. He just appeared, like clockwork.
You never complained.
Even when he spread out his notes like he owned the space. Even when he tapped his quill with annoying precision. Even when he smirked that stupidly gorgeous smirk whenever you caught him glancing at you instead of his textbook.
"You're late," he said, not looking up.
You rolled your eyes, setting your books down beside him. “You don’t own time.”
“No,” he said, casually turning a page. “But I like when it syncs with yours.”
You hated how your stomach flipped at that. You hated it more when he smiled, like he knew.
Silence settled again, thick like fog. Words unsaid. Glances exchanged. That weird, warm thing buzzing beneath your skin that you never dared name.
And then?
A pencil rolled off the edge of your table.
You bent to grab it—he did too.
Your hands touched.
Just barely.
A spark. A shift. A heartbeat loud enough to echo in your throat.
You looked up.
He was already staring.
“I—uh—sorry,” you mumbled, pulling your hand away.
But he didn’t move.
“I’m not,” he said softly.
You blinked. “What?”
He reached across the table, fingers brushing your wrist like he’d been waiting for an excuse to touch you forever.
“Can I try something?”
You nodded, breath caught halfway in your lungs.
He leaned forward, close enough that your noses nearly touched.
But instead of kissing you, he just pressed his forehead to yours.
Quiet. Gentle. Deliberate.
Like he was memorizing the shape of your presence.
“You make me forget we’re supposed to be rivals,” he whispered.
You smiled, eyes closing for a moment too long. “You never really tried to win anyway.”
“I didn’t need to,” he said, voice barely audible. “I already got what I wanted.”
And just like that, the library—books, whispers, time—faded.
Because he was right.
This wasn’t about grades or rivals anymore.
It was about you. And him. And the space between that wasn’t empty anymore.