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“Thank you. I do my best.”

A tiny hum leaves her throat.

Not offended.

Not impressed.

Just... her.

I watch in silence as she crosses the library and heads straight for the loveseat on the other side of the room. She sits down, tucks one leg beneath herself, and gets comfortable.

Then she pulls out a book.

I recognize it immediately.

Frankenstein.

The same copy she’s been reading for days.

The same book I’d left covered in my own notes long before she ever arrived here.

“You can grab a book and join me,” she says. Without looking up, she adds, “Or leave.”

I stare at her.

The audacity.

The confidence.

The fact that she’s casually giving me the choice to stay in my own library like she’s the one who owns the place.

It should annoy me.

Instead, something warm settles in my heart.

Because she isn’t asking me to leave. She isn’t telling me to stay, either. She’s simply giving me the choice, as if my presence beside her is the most natural thing in the world.

I reach for the shelf behind me and pull out a random book.

Neither of us speaks.

But my eyes keep drifting back to her.

She looks ridiculous.

Beautifully, unfairly ridiculous.

I force my gaze back to my book.

Fuck.

How is it possible that even with half her face covered in skincare shit, she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen?

I don’t think she has the slightest idea of just how gorgeous she.

For two people who supposedly can’t stand each other, we’re getting dangerously comfortable with the silence between us. And somehow, sitting beside her feels more intimate than it should.

I don’t know what the hell all this means.