Rain whispered on the roof like it had something to say.
Lyra hadn't meant to stay this late. The old library smelled of dust and forgotten things, lit only by dim yellow sconces and the flicker of a dying storm outside. She sat in a secluded alcove between the shelves, curled around a history textbook she hadn't meant to open.
She liked it here. The quiet. The order. No laughter. No cruelty. Just the silence of old pages and ink.
Everyone else had gone home.
Except him.
She hadn't noticed at first—not until she felt it again. That sensation. The breathless press of eyes that saw her.
He stood two tables away, dark hoodie pulled low, sketchbook half open on the table before him. He wasn't looking at her—not directly. But the space between them crackled all the same.
Lyra lowered her gaze to the textbook. Tried to focus.
"You're reading the wrong chapter," he said, voice smooth and low.
She froze.
He rose slowly, stepping closer, not quite invading her space—but close enough that she could smell cedar, wind, something cold. Something not entirely human.
She said nothing.
He pointed at the page, tapping lightly with an ink-stained finger. "Midterms will cover 1600s through industrial era. You're still in medieval Europe."
Her throat tightened. "Oh."
Silence folded in around them again.
"I'm Elias," he said, voice still soft but sure, as if he'd chosen that moment specifically.
She stared at his hand as he offered it, long and pale. For a second, she thought she saw something dark on his palm—faint lines like blood. But when she blinked, it was gone.
"Lyra," she whispered, finally touching her fingers to his. His skin was cold. Not like winter, but like night water. Deep. Still.
He didn't let go too quickly, and she didn't pull back fast enough.
"You always stay this late?" he asked, moving to sit across from her like it was inevitable.
She hesitated, then nodded.
His smile was the smallest thing—a ghost of one. "Me too. It's quieter here. Less… people."
That surprised her.
"You don't like people?"
He tilted his head slightly. "I like quiet. I like thought. People tend to… interrupt."
He reached for his sketchbook and flipped it open. Intricate pencil drawings lined the pages—gothic windows, trees twisting like dancers, faces that looked haunted and beautiful all at once.
She leaned closer without thinking.
"You draw."
"I do," he said simply.
"Why?"
He shrugged. "Same reason you hide in the library, I imagine. The world outside doesn't ask for us. So we build our own."
That struck something deep in her. She hadn't even said she was hiding.
"You're… not what I expected," she whispered.
He chuckled under his breath. "You expected a vampire?"
She blinked.
He grinned faintly. "Just a joke."
But the word lingered.
He turned a page in the sketchbook. This one held a drawing of a house. Cozy. Sunlight flooding through open windows. There were people in the background—smiling, laughing.
"Your family?" she asked.
His eyes flicked down. "Yes. I have three sisters. All in college now. Our house is too quiet without them."
Her chest tightened. "You're lucky."
"I know." He said it without guilt, but without pride either. Just honesty. "They were always louder than me. I liked it. I used to draw them while they argued."
She studied his hands. They were long-fingered, elegant. He didn't fidget.
"And your parents?"
"They run a café. I help when I'm not… here. Or sketching." He looked at her. "You?"
She looked down quickly. "It's just me."
He didn't push.
"I always wondered," he said instead, "what it would be like to be invisible."
Lyra stiffened.
"To slip between moments. Walk unnoticed. Hide in pages. That's you, isn't it?"
She nodded. Slowly. Unsure if it was an insult or the first real observation anyone had ever made about her.
"I used to be loud," he said, leaning back. "I was the center of things. School came easy, too easy. People bored me. The only thing that kept me grounded was drawing. Still does."
She looked at him. "Then why come here? If you're too smart for school?"
He shrugged. "Because my parents asked me to. Because someone has to walk their sisters to school. Because sometimes, you do the thing that matters to someone else—even if it doesn't matter to you."
She wanted to ask more. But she didn't. Not yet.
Instead, she flipped a page in his sketchbook.
He let her.
They studied together after that. A quiet rhythm built between them—his voice low as he explained timelines and revolutions, hers soft when she asked questions she never would've dared in class. He didn't laugh. Didn't smirk.
He made her feel like she wasn't stupid.
The clock ticked louder the darker it got.
"I should go," she said eventually, when the silence between words began to stretch too long.
He stood too, gathering his things with fluid grace.
"I'll walk you to the doors."
"No, it's okay. I can—"
"Please," he said, without force, just stillness. "It's not safe out there. Not this late."
She didn't know why she believed him—but she did.
They walked side by side down the empty hall. Her shoulder almost brushed his. Almost.
At the doors, he didn't open them. Just looked out into the rain.
"Strange," he murmured.
"What?"
"No moon tonight."
She glanced up through the glass. Just black clouds and a whisper of lightning.
"It's fine," she said, pushing the door.
But his hand stopped her. Not grabbing. Just hovering.
"Next time," he said, eyes meeting hers with that strange quiet intensity, "let someone walk with you. Even ghosts don't like being alone too long."
She didn't answer.
She walked into the rain.
Behind her, the door creaked shut.
And from the high library window, he watched until she was gone.