The library was quiet, almost too quiet, filled with the soft rustle of pages and the distant hum of ceiling fans. She sat with her books open, trying to focus, but her thoughts kept drifting—back to him.
He sat beside her, close enough that she could feel his presence without even looking. There was something about him that made everything else fade, something calm yet dangerously distracting.
“You’re reading the same page for five minutes,” he whispered, a hint of a smile in his voice.
She exhaled softly, finally turning toward him. “Maybe I’m just tired.”
“Or maybe,” he leaned a little closer, lowering his voice, “you’re thinking too much.”
Her heart skipped. He wasn’t wrong.
There was always this feeling when they were together—safe, like nothing could touch her… yet at the same time, something wild stirred beneath that comfort. Something she didn’t fully understand, but didn’t want to stop either.
“I can’t concentrate when you’re this close,” she admitted quietly.
“Then I’ll move,” he said—but he didn’t.
Instead, his hand brushed lightly against hers on the table. It was such a small touch, yet it sent a wave of warmth through her. She didn’t pull away.
“See? That’s the problem,” she whispered, her lips curving slightly.
“And you don’t want me to fix it,” he replied.
She shook her head, her voice barely there. “No… I don’t.”
They both smiled, a silent understanding passing between them. The books, the notes, the reason they were there—it all faded into the background.
Because sometimes, the safest place isn’t quiet or distant.
Sometimes, it’s right there—in the middle of something a little wild, a little dangerous… and completely right.
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