Chapter Four: Dangerous Flirtations
The air in the aisle felt thin, charged. I turned to leave, hoping the quiet corners of the library would swallow me whole, but his voice followed me, a low murmur that clung to the silence like static.
"Careful," he said. "Keep storming off like that and I might think you're obsessed with me."
I froze mid-step, the sound of my own heartbeat loud in my ears. Deep breath. I turned slowly, arms crossed tight over my cardigan, my face blazing.
"Oh, absolutely. You caught me. I rearranged my entire schedule just to be haunted by your smug face in every corner of campus."
He was still in his chair, but he'd leaned back, hands laced behind his head. The simple movement made the fabric of his brown shirt pull taut across his chest. That infuriating smirk grew wider by the second.
"You're getting better at sarcasm. I'm proud."
I arched a brow, my fingers tightening on the strap of my bag. The distance between us felt both safe and agonizing.
"I'll add that to my résumé: Managed to survive an overconfident professor with delusions of charm."
He chuckled, the sound low and warm, and his eyes darkened in a way that made my pulse skip traitorously.
"You forgot devastatingly handsome."
I squinted at him, refusing to acknowledge the truth in the statement.
"Must've slipped my mind. Along with your actual teaching credentials."
"Ouch." He pressed a hand to his chest, feigning a wounded heart. "Sharp tongue. You should be careful. Someone might fall for it."
"Someone needs to fall on it," I snapped, rolling my eyes.
His laugh echoed softly through the stacks, a light, teasing sound that seemed to curl around me in the quiet.
"You know, this back-and-forth we've got going? It's dangerously close to flirting."
I took a step backward, my skirt whispering against my legs.
"Then clearly you've never been insulted properly," I said, slinging my bag over my shoulder.
"I'll take notes. Over coffee?"
I blinked. He had shifted forward again, elbows on his knees, his gaze steady and surprisingly sincere. He actually meant it.
"I don't drink coffee with people who can't hold a book the right way up," I said, nodding at the upside-down text he still hadn't corrected.
He looked down, cursed under his breath with a soft, amused sigh, then grinned up at me—a sheepish, boyish grin that was entirely new and disarming.
"Touché."
Shaking my head, a reluctant smile threatening my lips, I finally turned and started walking away for real. The late afternoon sun had shifted, painting long, golden stripes across the carpet. Maybe it was the way that light caught in his hair, or the way his brown shirt seemed to glow warmly, highlighting the sharp, clean line of his jaw. Or maybe it was that lingering grin—less a smirk now, and more something genuine and intriguing.
Distracted, my foot caught on the slightly raised edge of an old floor tile. My balance vanished. My bag swung wildly, and a gasp tore from my throat as I pitched forward, bracing for the impact with the hard floor.
It never came.
Strong hands wrapped around my waist from behind, pulling me back. My body collided gently against the solid wall of his chest. The warmth of him surrounded me, steadying me, his hold firm and secure.
"Careful, dangerous," he murmured, his voice a soft vibration against my back. His face was close to my ear, his breath stirring the loose hairs at my temple. "You almost embarrassed yourself in the library. That would've been… tragic."
My entire face burned. I was achingly aware of every point of contact—his hands spanning my waist, the press of his chest against my shoulders, the sheltering cage of his arms.
"I… I didn't—" I stammered, my body stiff, trying to process the sudden, overwhelming proximity.
"Relax," he said, his voice low and reassuring, yet his hands didn't budge. "I've got you."
I swallowed hard, realizing I was leaning fully into his support. The faint, clean scent of him—coffee, cedar, sunshine on linen—was everywhere. His hands weren't just steadying me; they were holding me, claiming that dizzying moment of rescue.
"Let go," I whispered, my voice small and breathless.
"Not until I'm sure you won't kill yourself on the tiles again," he said softly, the words almost teasing, but there was a sharp, protective edge beneath them. A warning that felt strangely possessive.
After a heartbeat that stretched too long, I managed to step forward, breaking the contact. The cool library air rushed in where his warmth had been. I straightened my cardigan with trembling hands, fiddled with my messy bun, and pushed my glasses firmly up my nose. My heart was a wild drum against my ribs.
"You're… you're impossible," I muttered, turning to face him, hoping the irritation in my voice masked my utter disarray.
"And yet, here you are," he replied smoothly, his smirk returning but softer now. He leaned a shoulder against the bookshelf, his eyes glinting as they travelled over my flushed face and disheveled state. "Looking like a slightly flustered mess. It suits you."
I groaned, sliding my hands into the pockets of my flowing skirt, seeking an anchor.
"You're enjoying this way too much."
"Maybe," he conceded, pushing off the shelf and taking a single, deliberate step closer. The space between us shrunk again, charged and intimate. "But you're making it too easy."
I stopped breathing for a second.
"Making it easy?"
"Yes," he said slowly, his voice lowering to that private register that seemed to exist only for us. "You try so hard to act indifferent. So careful with your words, your gestures, even where you look… And yet…" He tilted his head, his gaze studying me with an intensity that felt like a physical touch. "You can't hide the way you notice me."
Heat flooded my cheeks. My chest felt tight.
"I… I don't notice you," I lied, my hand rising to fidget pointlessly with a loose strand of hair.
"Liar." His smirk softened, just a fraction, but his eyes darkened, deepening with an emotion that made my knees feel weak. "And don't think I haven't noticed the way you glance at me when you think no one's watching. Or the way your hands fidget with your bag strap when I'm near."
I took an involuntary step back, my shoulder brushing against a shelf. The truth of his observation was a palpable shock.
"I—That's not…"
"Yes, it is." He closed the small distance I'd created, not touching me, but close enough that I had to tilt my head up to hold his gaze. The faint, captivating scent of him wrapped around me once more. "And that's fine. You don't have to hide it from me. I like it."
I swallowed hard, my pulse racing in my throat. My glasses fogged slightly from the rush of my own unsteady breath.
"You—what are you doing?" I whispered, the tremor in my voice betraying me completely.
"Holding you upright," he said, his tone deceptively light. His gaze dropped to my lips for a fleeting, heart-stopping moment before returning to my eyes. "Keeping you from falling. From embarrassment. From… yourself."
The blush spread down my neck. I felt utterly exposed.
"I… I can stand on my own—"
"Sure," he said softly, finally granting me a sliver of space. "But I like having you in my orbit."
I blinked at him, my mind reeling. My skirt felt too light, my glasses crooked, my carefully constructed composure in ruins.
"Orbit?"
"Yes. My orbit," he said, that familiar curl returning to his lips. "Don't test me. You'll get pulled in too fast."
A shiver, equal parts terror and thrilling anticipation, traced my spine. I couldn't name the dangerous something else coiling in my stomach.
"I think I need… coffee," I muttered, the first mundane escape I could grasp.
"Coffee?" he repeated, a spark of amusement reigniting in his eyes. He leaned a hip against the edge of the study table, one hand slipping into his pocket. "I know a place. We could… compare sarcasm notes."
I froze, one foot half-raised to continue my retreat.
"Compare sarcasm notes?"
"Yes." His smirk was full and bright now. "Or maybe… I'll just observe how you make yourself blush next time you think no one's looking."
A defeated, flustered sound escaped me. I tugged my cardigan around me like a shield.
"I think… I think I'm done for the day."
"For now," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper that was both a promise and a gentle threat. "But I'll be seeing you. And next time, don't slip. I like seeing you… intact."
With one last, burning look, I turned and hurried down the aisle. My skirt swirled around my legs, my cardigan bunched at my wrists, my messy bun threatening a complete unraveling. I pushed my glasses up my nose twice in frantic succession, trying to outpace the memory of his hands on my waist, his chest against my back, his voice in my ear.
But the thought of him—the brown shirt, the teasing eyes, the warmth and the danger—followed me out of the library and into the fading afternoon light, a ghost of a touch I could still feel.
This was far from over.