“Jace.”
I blink hard, as if she just snapped a rubber band against my brain.
She’s looking at me over the top of her glasses, lips pressed together, fighting a smile she’s definitely losing. That alone should be illegal.
“Focus,” she says. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?” I ask.
“Staring,” she replies. “And no, it’s not subtle.”
I lean back in my chair, stretch my arms as if I’m bored. “Maybe I just like your face.”
She snorts before she can stop herself, shakes her head, and taps the page with her pen. “Liar. Now read.”
I grin anyway because there it is: that rhythm, that ease. The way she doesn’t flinch from me or play dumb. She always pushes back, steady and sure.
I glance down at the paper, still smiling to myself.
Fuck.
If focusing means not looking at her, this is going to be a long hour.
I sigh and run my hands down my face, before I rest my elbows on the table and stare at the page. The words still wobble a little and shift if I stare too long. But it’s easier this time. Manageable. I take it slow.
I stumble once.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath.
I keep going.
She doesn’t rush me, jump in, or correct me. She waits, eyes on the page instead of my face.
About twenty minutes in, her phone vibrates on the desk, the sound sharp in the quiet.
An unknown number lights up the screen.
She bites her lip and glances up at me.
“Go ahead,” I say. “I can survive thirty seconds without you.”
One corner of her mouth lifts as she grabs her phone. She responds, voice soft. “Hello?”
Someone a few tables away lets out an exaggerated hiss. “Shh.”
I turn in my chair before I even think about it. “Mind your own fucking business.”
The guy blinks in surprise, then averts his gaze, suddenly very engrossed in his laptop.
This gets the Librarian’s attention. She glances at me from behind her desk and I hold her gaze. I don’t flinch. I let her see exactly how little I care.
She looks away first.
Lola stands, phone pressed to her ear, as she steps a few paces toward the shelves. Far enough to gain some privacy, yet close enough for me to see her. I notice her shoulders tense as she listens, her whole posture stiffening. Her face loses its color.
“Yes,” she says quietly into the phone. “Yes, I understand.”
Her free hand curls into the sleeve of her sweater, fingers tightening around the fabric. Her eyes shine, glassy and too bright, and I see a tear slide down her cheek.
