The Library Heat

The library was supposed to be cold, quiet, and painfully serious.
But somehow, that afternoon, it felt warmer than any place she’d been all week—and he was the reason.

They were sitting across from each other, pretending to study. His books were open, her notes were spread out, and neither of them had read a full sentence in the last fifteen minutes.

It started with a light brush of their feet beneath the table. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe not.

She ignored it.
Then it happened again—soft, deliberate this time.

She looked up. He didn’t.
He only smirked slightly, eyes fixed on the page like he was actually reading.

So she stretched her leg just a little further, pretending to adjust her position. Their ankles touched again, warmer now, lingering.

This time he looked up.

His eyes held hers for a moment too long—a silent dare, a quiet confession. The library around them faded: the whispering students, the sound of turning pages, the distant flipping of textbooks. All she felt was that small point of contact under the table, pulsing with a heat neither of them wanted to pull away from.

“You good?” he whispered.

“Not really,” she whispered back.

He smiled—slow, knowing. “Same.”

Their feet kept touching, sliding gently, brushing, retreating, returning.
Every moment tightening something between them.

By the time they packed their bags, they had barely studied a thing.

But they left with something louder than grades—
a heat they were both pretending not to understand.

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