Behind her, she felt his attention linger for too long, like he could still see the crack she’d already patched. Let him look. Let himguess. He could chase down all the dream books he wanted. It didn’t mean he’d understand what it felt like to wake up gasping with the taste of ash on your tongue.
She left the desk and walked toward the aisle. Any aisle.
Fuck the nightmares.
This was her library, and nothing followed her into the stacks.
Except him.
Hunter stayed the entire day. He claimed one of the deep alcove chairs by the far window, the one with the warmest afternoon light and the best view of the front desk, and sat there with a short stack of books like he had nowhere better to be.
And he read. And read. And read.
Daphne felt it, though.
Not his gaze, exactly, as much as his awareness, as if he were monitoring her without watching her. It made her skin itch. Or burn. Depending on the hour.
He left three minutes before closing. Not in a rush, but with the purpose of someone who had to be somewhere, all of a sudden. He turned to the counter and her as he passed, flashed her that same infuriatingly confident smile, and said, “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
It wasn’t a promise, nor a threat. It was a fact.
And he came through.
The next day, and the one after that. For a week, every morning like clockwork, he walked in like he belonged, never wearing a jacket or even a sweater. He’d take the same chair and read from the same rotation of books. Psychology. Mythology. Neurology. The occasional volume of poetry.Because, of course, he read poetry.
She hated that she noticed.
Hated that she’d started to expect the sound of the door opening at exactly 9:05, the subtle creak of the chair when he sat down, the way her skin buzzed when he was close, even if he saidnothing at all. She hated most that on the day he didn’t come in until noon, she’d caught herself checking the clock more times than she’d ever admit.
Stuck between a rock and a hard place, that’s what she was.
Her instinct told her he wanted something from her, which made no sense at all. For her to address that, she should go up to him and talk–which she would, under different circumstances. But the awareness she seemed to have about him was enough to make her pull up every defense mechanism she had.
So, she didn’t want to go and engage with him and couldn’t kick him out. The library was a public place. No matter how much her heart believed she owned the place, she didn’t, meaning she couldn’t boot him.
The situation was frying her nerves.
She needed to know what he wanted, not just for peace of mind, though that would’ve been nice, but because her gut said he was watching her, studying her. She knew, even though she’d never once caught him looking in her direction. No matter. Because when you grew up like she did, you sense trouble like a dog smells a treat. She spent most of that morning avoiding his corner like it was radioactive. By eleven, she’d nearly snapped at a kid who dropped a copy ofGoosebumpsand apologized to a plant for bumping into it. Things were going well.
Damn this man, she had to get clever. Alright. So she would find a way to get him talking without tipping her hand.
She sat at the computer, typed some fake survey questions that would sound like protocol. She printed a copy and stuck it on a clipboard. Then she made the walk across the library, casually, as if she were checking lightbulbs, or air quality, or literally anything else. Her stomach was tight. Her palms were damp. And she strolled on.
She stopped a few feet from his alcove. “You’ve been here a week,” she stated nonchalantly, not like she’d spent six days trying not to think about him.
He looked up from his book, something dense and metaphysical today, and offered her the slow smile of a predator who’d been waiting for the prey to simply present herself to him. “Checking in?” he asked.
She tapped the clipboard. “Library usage survey. It’s for patrons who’ve been around a while.” Not the best line, but plausible. Right?
He tilted his head. “How long does it usually take to qualify?”
She didn’t even blink. “It’s not about the time you spend here. It’s about the usage of the resources.”
He chuckled. “Fair enough. What do you want to know?”
She glanced at the clipboard. “Basic age and profession. Reasons for using the library. Preferred subjects.”
He arched a brow. “Okay.” He didn’t miss a beat and started rattling answers. “Thirty-two. Cognitive sleep therapist. I’m here for anything on sleep patterns, dreaming, lucid states, and memory sequencing. That sort of thing.”
