The library was muffled, the air thick with the smell of old paper and the low, rhythmic hum of the ventilation system. It was 3:45 PM. I had arrived fifteen minutes early on purpose, needing to claim the territory before he could. I didn't want to deal with the visual impact of walking in and finding him already settled because I needed the upper hand, even if it was just an illusion.
I had spent the better part of the night rehearsing my boundaries like a script. Keep it strictly professional. Stick to the syllabus. Don't engage. I wouldn't let him lead me astray with his clever wordplay, and I certainly wouldn't let myself become collateral damage in whatever war Marissa was waging. My scholarship was my only ticket out of my parents' reach and my one chance to be an artist without their suffocating "corrections." I wasn't going to let a guy who treated life like a game be the reason I lost it.
By 4:30 PM, the chair across from me was still empty. My initial anxiety shifted into a sharp anger. Of course, I thought, gripping my pen a little too hard. The rules don't apply to Liam Lincoln. Deciding not to waste another second, I opened my notebook and started drafting a viciously organized outline. I lost track of time, the scratch of my pen against the paper the only thing grounding me.
I didn't hear him approach. I only realized I wasn't alone when the air in the aisle seemed to shift, growing heavier and warmer.
looking up, the breath hitched in my throat. He was leaning against the bookshelf directly in front of me, his arms crossed, watching me with a quiet, unreadable intensity. He looked like he'd stepped straight off a high-fashion magazine shoot, a worn black leather jacket over a crisp white tee, dark jeans, and hair that looked perfectly messy, as if he'd run his fingers through it a thousand times in frustration. My eyes betrayed me, lingering on the sharp line of his jaw and the expensive watch glinting on his wrist.
I realized with a jolt of horror that I had been staring for a full twenty seconds. Checking him out!! Fuck!
I felt the heat rush to my cheeks as I snapped my gaze back to my notes. I pointedly tapped the face of my watch, making sure he saw the gesture, but Liam didn't look even remotely apologetic. He just pushed off the shelf with a slow, effortless grace, dragged the heavy wooden chair across the floor with a low screech, and sat down.
"So," he said, his voice a low vibration that seemed too loud for the library. He dropped his bag on the table and flipped open his laptop. "Where are we starting, Carver?"
He was acting like nothing happened. No mention of the basketball team, no explanation for the silence after her texts. The way he could flip from intense pursuit to this cool indifference was a classic red flag! the "hot and cold" game that usually ended with someone getting burned.
Good, I thought, bracing myself. If he's going to be cold, I can be a glacier!
Without saying a word, I turned my laptop around so he could see the list of research topics and the bibliography I'd compiled. He glanced at my face first, a quick, searching look that felt like he was trying to find a crack in my armor before finally focusing on the screen. He gave a single, curt nod.
"Works for me," he muttered.
The rest of the session passed in silence. The only sounds between us were the frantic clicking of keys and the occasional rustle of a textbook page. We worked in parallel, two strangers forced into a partnership, neither of us willing to bridge the gap. It was productive, disciplined, and entirely hollow.
It was exactly the "business-only" arrangement I had prayed for, yet as the clock ticked toward evening, the silence felt less like peace and more like a heavy, unsettled storm.