The library was warmer than usual. The heater hummed softly beneath the window bench, and Serene had curled herself into a corner with a poetry book she didn't intend to finish. It was one of those rare afternoons when her shifts didn't overlap, and the weight on her shoulders felt just light enough to pretend it wasn't there.
She didn't notice him at first.
Not until he dropped a pencil beside her foot and muttered, "Oops, sorry. I have a terrible habit of attacking people's shoes."
She glanced up.
He was tall, slender, with soft curls and an awkward smile that belonged in the early pages of a romance book. He wore a worn sweater with sleeves too long and smelled faintly of cinnamon and ink.
Serene raised an eyebrow. "My shoes survived."
"That's a relief. They're nice shoes."
"They're not," she said, glancing at her scuffed soles.
He laughed, and she couldn't help the smile that tugged at her lips.
"I'm Idris," he added, not sitting yet, but lingering nearby like he wasn't sure if he was welcome.
"Serene."
"Serene," he repeated like a taste he wasn't ready to swallow. "That's... not a name you forget."
She closed the book. "You always flirt like this, or just with girls wearing tragic footwear?"
"Only the tragic ones. You looked like you needed a break."
"I did," she said quietly, surprised by the honesty in her voice.
He gestured to the spot across from her. "Can I sit?"
She nodded. And just like that, something changed.
They spoke for hours — about nothing and everything. About books they hadn't read, food they missed, homes they pretended not to long for. Idris told her about his little brother back home who tried to marry their neighbor's chicken out of boredom. Serene laughed so hard she snorted.
He stared at her then. Not like the others did. Not with hunger or calculation. Just... wonder.
"You laugh like you don't get to do it often," he said.
Serene's smile faded a little, but she didn't look away. "Maybe I don't."
He offered to walk her home, and against her usual instincts, she said yes.
It wasn't the walk that made her feel warm. It was the way he never walked behind her. Always beside. Never too close. Never too far.
When they reached her door, he didn't ask for her number.
Instead, he said, "If I see you again, I'll call it fate."
She shook her head, smirking. "That's lazy."
"Maybe," he said, grinning. "But if it brings me back to you, I won't complain."
She watched him leave, heart a little lighter.
Upstairs, in the shadows of the neighboring rooftop, Roman Ashborne stood with his coat pulled tight.
He had watched every step. Every smile. Every glance.
And he had never hated someone so quickly in his life.
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