If I had known that avoiding eye contact would one day save—or ruin—my life, I would've practiced it more in school.
That afternoon, after narrowly escaping Rina's weird declaration of competitive flirtation, I decided to take refuge in my usual safe place: the library.
No one flirts in libraries. That was a rule. Books before feelings. Alphabetical order before emotional order.
At least, that's what I thought—until I saw her.
Dahlia Moreno.
Librarian by trade, mystery by vibe.
She sat at the usual help desk, flipping through some thick, hardcover book like she was solving a centuries-old riddle. Dark hair fell over one eye, round glasses perched perfectly on her nose. She always looked like she belonged in a movie scene where the hero realizes the quiet girl is actually way too hot to be this mysterious.
We'd exchanged awkward hellos before, mostly when I returned late books. She once fined me seventy-five cents with an apology so soft, I almost paid her a dollar just for the sound of it.
I headed toward the graphic novel shelf, but as I passed, she spoke.
"Eliot?"
I froze mid-step. "...Yeah?"
She gently closed her book, eyes lifting behind her glasses. "I, um, I read your blog."
Of course she did.
"That thing went viral fast," I muttered, cheeks burning. "Look, I didn't mean for people to take it seriously. It was basically one long rant—"
"I liked it," she interrupted, voice soft but steady. "It felt… honest."
I blinked. Honest? That was not a word I was used to hearing applied to anything I produced, unless it was my bank account balance.
Then she said the sentence that officially put me on the Romance Apocalypse train, express line to Chaosville:
"I was wondering if… if you'd like to help me."
"Help you?"
She fidgeted with the edge of a sticky note. "I'm… writing something. A romance novel. Secretly."
A secret romance novelist. Of course she was.
"And I thought maybe… you could help me with the dialogue? The male perspective parts?"
My brain short-circuited somewhere between help and dialogue and romance novel. Was this flirting? No, probably not. I was terrible at identifying flirting. Zoe once told me someone could throw lingerie at my head and I'd ask them if it was on sale.
"I mean," I said, trying to sound casual, "I guess I could help…"
Her face lit up. Like a tiny, quiet sunrise behind shy eyelashes.
"Thank you," she whispered. "I think your writing's good."
That was when I realized I had been wrong about libraries.
They weren't safe from flirting.
They were ambush zones.
—
By the time I got home, I'd developed a full-blown existential crisis.
Viral blog.One aggressive rival declaring love war.One intimidating lawyer treating me like an emotional therapist.One best friend who kept winking at me.And now, a soft-spoken librarian secretly writing romance novels who just asked me to help her craft fictional relationships.
My phone buzzed again.
New Email: From: ScarlettV_StreamsSubject: URGENT BUSINESS PROPOSAL
Hey. Saw your blog. Wanna be my fake boyfriend for a YouTube series? Could be funny. Could go viral. Let me know.
I dropped the phone on my bed and lay face down in defeat.
I was, officially, doomed.