The word intimacy landed in my stomach like a stone.I didn’t dare look at Noah, but I could feel him turn his head toward me, the warmth of his attention practically pressing into my skin.
“Consider this,” Dr.Scheinbaum went on, “a requirement for your midterm grade.Meet on your own time, in whatever space best fosters… focus.”The pause she gave before that last word made my heart trip over itself.
Then she dismissed us.
The room buzzed as students shuffled out, but I stayed rooted in my seat, pretending to organize my notes.Noah lingered, leaning slightly toward me until his shoulder brushed mine.
“I’m free this afternoon,” he said, voice pitched low so only I could hear.“Around five.Want to meet in the library?”
My throat tightened.Words seemed like an impossible task, but I managed a stiff nod.The library was public.Safe.Neutral.Walls of books and plenty of witnesses—nothing could happen there.
At least… that’s what I told myself.
* * *
I got to the library twenty minutes early, partly because I didn’t want to keep Noah waiting, and partly because I wanted to control the battlefield.
No cramped reading rooms.No quiet corners where the air felt too warm and the walls seemed to lean in.I picked a table smack in the middle of the main floor, directly beneath the huge chandelier that spilled light over the space like a spotlight.We’d be surrounded on all sides—students reading, typing, whispering.Witnesses.Neutral ground.
When Noah walked in, every head seemed to turn just slightly.Not enough to be obvious, but enough for me to notice.He had that kind of presence—the casual, effortless confidence that made people want to look twice.
“Nice table,” he said as he slid into the chair across from me.His grin told me he knew exactly why I’d chosen it.
I opened my notebook and pretended to focus on the margins.“Plenty of light,” I said flatly.“It's easy to spread out our work.”
He leaned his forearms on the table, that easy posture that made it look like he had all the time in the world.“So,” he began, “I thought we could start by outlining the key imagery in the garden passage, then compare it to some of the other metaphors in the text—”
I exhaled, relieved he was actually talking about the project.
“—but before we do that,” he said, interrupting himself, “where are you from?”
The question threw me.“Why?”
“Because I want to know.”He rested his chin on one hand.“You’ve got this quiet, Midwestern professor vibe.”
I stared at him.“Bellevue.Small town in northern Ohio.”
His eyebrows went up.“Isn’t that where Sherwood Anderson grew up?The Winesburg, Ohio guy?”
My mouth fell open.“You know that?”
He grinned.“Of course.Except in the book it’s called Winesburg, right?”
I shook my head in disbelief.“I’ve never met anyone outside of my high school English teacher who knew that.”
It happened so easily I didn’t see it coming.Noah tapped the cover of the text with his pen.“I bet you’re the type who likes novels with no wasted words.The kind that gut you in under two hundred pages.”
I narrowed my eyes.“And you’re the type who gets lost in thousand-page epics and quotes the sensual parts like scripture.”
“Guilty,” he said, grinning.“Give me lush, lyric-heavy poetry any day.”
I shook my head, fighting a smile.“Academic puritanism suits me just fine, thanks.”
He leaned back, pretending to look wounded.“Puritanism?Henry, every novel’s just a love story in disguise.”
I snorted, the sound louder than I meant.“That’s absurd.”
“Prove me wrong,” he challenged, his eyes catching the light in a way that made it impossible to look away.
