The library was quiet that afternoon.
Not silent — just filled with the soft shuffle of pages and whispering air conditioners.
Eliana arrived early.
She always did.
She picked a table near the window — sunlight soft, warm, and distant enough from the noisy group tables.
She didn't expect him to already be there.
Xavier leaned back in the chair, earphones in, one hand tapping the table lightly to music only he could hear. His eyes were closed — not sleeping, just resting — the kind of rest someone takes when they're comfortable in their own skin.
Her steps slowed without her consent.
He opened his eyes.
The shift was small but precise — from relaxed to focused — and Eliana felt it.
His gaze didn't hit her.
It settled on her.
Like he had been waiting, but not impatiently.
"You're early," she said quietly.
"So are you," he replied, removing one earphone.
She sat down across from him, placing her notebook carefully, like she was arranging a barrier.
But barriers didn't work with him.
He didn't break them — he just existed past them.
They began to work — reading, writing, underlining key points.
But beneath it all, the air shifted.
Every time Eliana reached for a book, she was aware of his eyes.
Not staring.
Just seeing.
And when Xavier leaned forward at one point, their hands brushed.
Not a dramatic moment.
Just skin on skin — warm, brief, charged like static.
Eliana pulled her hand back quickly — too quickly.
Xavier looked at her — slow, deliberate, steady.
"You felt that," he said quietly.
Not a question.
A statement.
She swallowed. "It was an accident."
He did that almost-smile again.
"Sure."
They continued, but concentration was gone now — the kind of gone you can't even pretend to retrieve.
"Eliana," he said suddenly.
She looked up.
His voice wasn't loud.
Just deep enough to touch something inside her.
"You don't have to act like you don't feel things."
Her breath paused mid-chest.
"I'm not—"
"Yes, you are," he cut in softly. "You hold yourself too tightly. Like if you relax for a second, something will happen."
Eliana didn't reply.
Because he was right.
And being seen was more intimate than being touched.
He rested his forearm on the table, leaning forward — close enough that she felt the warmth of his body, his breath just barely touching the air near her cheek.
Not touching her.
Just proximity.
The kind that burns.
"Eliana," he said again, quieter this time, "I'm not rushing you."
He was close enough now that his voice didn't need volume — just presence.
"I'm just… noticing you."
Her heartbeat was a drum in her throat.
Her fingers curled slightly on the table.
Then—
Someone at the next table dropped a book loudly.
The spell broke.
Eliana inhaled like she had been underwater.
"Let's get back to work," she whispered.
Xavier leaned back slowly — but not far — just enough to give her space while still remaining a gravity she could feel.
"Alright," he murmured.
But from that moment onward, every page turn, every quiet breath, every small shared glance —
felt like fire under the skin.
Not rushed.
Not overwhelming.
Just inevitable.