“I’ve been researching too,” I admit. Slowly. Warily. Like handing over a weapon.
He nods once, no surprise in his eyes. He already knew. Of course he did.
We stand in the hallway, paused in the hush between secrets and confessions. The silence that follows is loaded. Pressurized.
He speaks first. “What would you think of… combining our efforts?” His eyes meet mine. His tone doesn’t waver, but there’s something beneath the surface. Not hesitation.
Restraint.
It’s more than an offer—it’s an olive branch. This isn’t just about research. It’s about trust. Opening a door he never leaves open for anyone.
I hesitate. “I was heading to the library, actually…”
Silence sinks into the space around us, swallowing a feeling I don’t name. He watches me—patient, calculating. A slight cock to his head as his eyes glint with something like curiosity.
“Do you want to come?”
The smile he gives me then is dangerous. Not because it’s charming, but because it’s the one I know. The old one. Easygoing. Infuriatingly sexy. That one dimple forming. The smilefrom a time when everything was simpler. The one that always used to undo me.
Annoyingly, I find it still does.
And just like that, the walls shift—not falling, but rearranging. A quiet truce written in old smiles and shared purpose.
* * *
The Whittaker Librarystands at the heart of campus like a relic from a more elegant age—circular and towering, built from ancient stone veined with mineral deposits that shimmer in the sunlight.
Inside, it opens into a grand, layered dome, tiers of shelves spiraling like a nautilus shell. Smaller towers filled with books spread out like the arms of an octopus. The upper floors are dotted with study rooms and alcoves for more private meetings.
The main dome soars overhead, its glass roof a mosaic of clear and sea-blue panes. Sunlight fractures through them in ribbons, dancing across the polished stone floor below. At the center of it all, a circular reading chamber rests beneath the apex—curved benches, bright pillows, and the hush of centuries of knowledge surrounding it.
We find a table in the third ring, halfway between the earth-toned history alcoves and the arcane sciences vault. Gavrail drops his satchel and I pull out my worn red tome from Elesmere.
“I found this in Ink & Ether,” I say, laying it gently between us. “It doesn’t read like a textbook, exactly. It discusses magick history, but when it speaks of fusion, it makes it sound like it lies somewhere between myth and legend. Or maybe dream and nightmare.” I trace the cover, frowning slightly. “The practicality of fusion magick seems to be hidden under warnings andplentyof examples of failed attempts.”
He opens the book, reading silently for a moment. “Nothidden, exactly,” he murmurs, eyes skimming words like a predator tracking something just out of sight. “Perhaps more… intentionally buried.”
My stomach tightens at the sharp focus in his expression; at the way stillness clings to him—deliberate and dangerous. Some part of me wonders what it would be like to have that focus directed solely on me. A pulse stirs low in my body at the thought—but it’s not from fear. I instinctively move to put some distance between us and try to ignore the magnetic pull I always feel in his presence.
“Warnings against magick are always meant to disguise, to keep the wrong minds away. Or lure the right ones closer.” His eyes flick to me as he says that last sentence, his words cast out like a spell.
He closes the book and runs a hand over the cover, his fingers pausing over the title. Tracking the worn gold letters.Elemental Fusion: The Art and Origin of Convergence.
“It looks ancient,” he murmurs.
“It is. The author doesn’t name themselves, but the way they write—it’s personal. Like they lived it. Like they know how fusion doesn’t just change your magick. It changesyou.”
His expression shifts—still unreadable, but tighter at the edges, like a flicker of recognition as he glances at me before looking back at the book. “Can I borrow it?” he asks.
I nod. “I’ve read it cover to cover three times, and while it mentions things similar to what we’ve done together…” I pause as my cheeks flush faintly, like our magick merging is intimate somehow. He notices—of course he does.“It doesn’t touch on what I’ve done, what you’ve seen me do…”
He reaches out, brushing my hand—a familiar gesture from a version of us that feels far away, but not forgotten. But there’s nothing casual in it. It feels intentional, as though he’s reminding me of something I’m actively trying to forget. My pulse skips traitorously, and I see a flicker in his silver eyes.
I move my hand away.
He doesn’t touch me again.
We fall into a rhythm of silence. Copying passages, cross-referencing notes, chasing threads into old volumes piled higher and higher between us. Somewhere in the middle of it all, time ceases to exist.
