Page 8 of Owl’s Cherished Mate

The library was quiet around me. A few people drifted in and out, but mostly it was just me and the sounds of the librarian with the amber eyes working at the front desk. I could hear him turning pages.

I stared at my screen and tried to care about finishing the current lesson I was on.

I didn’t.

A few minutes later—or maybe it was longer, I’d lost track—something appeared at the edge of my vision. A white ceramic mug. Steam curled from the top as it sat on the table.

Tea.

I stared at it. Then I looked up, but the librarian with the amber eyes was already walking back to the front desk. He hadn’t said a word to me—had he? Maybe I hadn’t heard him because I’d been too lost in my head.

No.

He’d just set it there like it was the most natural thing in the world—like he made tea for people every day.

He didn’t.

I’d been coming here for weeks, and I’d never once seen him make tea for anyone, least of all me.

My throat tightened. It was such a small thing. A cup of tea. It cost virtually nothing, meant nothing, and probably took him sixty seconds to make. Even so, no one had done something like that for me in so long that I didn’t know what to make of it. The kindness felt too big for the small gesture.

I wrapped both hands around the mug and let the heat seep into my palms.

“Thank you,” I whispered, low enough that I wasn’t sure he could hear me.

I didn’t look up. I couldn’t. If I looked at him right now—into those steady amber eyes—I would lose it. Right here in the library, surrounded by books that were apparently very sensitive, I would cry.

I took a sip. It was good. Chamomile with a touch of honey.

At the front desk, I heard him sit back down and get back to whatever he’d been doing. I took another sip and felt myself relax just enough to finally breathe for the first time all day.

4

GRAY

It was just tea.

That was what I told myself the next day, and the day after that, and every day for the rest of the week. I’d made tea for a person who looked like she needed it. That was all. Any decent person would have done the same.

My owl disagreed.

He’d been insufferable since the moment I’d set that mug on her table. Every time she walked through the door, he stirred. He noticed when she stared at her laptop with that crease between her brows. Noticed when her typing slowed or her shoulders dropped and she sat back in her chair like the weight of whatever she was carrying had won another round.

I noticed these things too, but I had the good sense to pretend I didn’t.

The tea had become a routine without either of us acknowledging it. She’d come in, set up at her table, and sometime around five thirty, I’d bring a cup over. I’d set it down, she’d wrap her hands around it, and that was it. She always whispered thank you without looking at me, though.

I didn’t read into it, but my owl did.

Of course he did.

On Friday, she brought a book to the circulation desk.

It was an older copy of a small business guide—the kind of practical, no-nonsense book that had been checked out a hundred times and had the spine to prove it. She set it on the counter and pulled her library card from her wallet.

“Just this one,” she said.

I picked it up and scanned the barcode. The name on the account populated on my screen.