The Library Lockdown

The St. Jude’s Architecture Library was a cathedral of glass and old oak, a place where whispers carried like shouts and the scent of floor wax was heavy enough to taste. Usually, this was Ethan’s sanctuary. Today, it felt like a cage.

"You’re doing it again," Liam murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to bypass Ethan’s ears and go straight to his spine.

Ethan didn't look up from the translucent tracing paper. "Doing what, Rossi? Existing? I’m allowed to do that."

"You’re over-calculating the load-bearing capacity for a decorative arch. It’s a conceptual sketch, Ethan. Not a blueprint for a bunker. Let it breathe."

Liam was sitting so close that their shoulders brushed every time one of them reached for a scale ruler. They had claimed a secluded mahogany table in the back of the North Wing, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that blocked them off from the rest of the world.

Ethan finally dropped his pencil. It clattered against the wood, the sound echoing through the silent hall. "It’s not a 'decorative arch.' It’s the structural soul of the revitalization project. If the math is off by even a fraction, the whole aesthetic is a lie."

Liam laughed, a soft, huffing sound that made Ethan’s chest tighten. Liam leaned over, his hand covering Ethan’s on the table to pull the sketch toward him.

His skin was warm. Infuriatingly warm.

Ethan’s breath hitched. He should have pulled away. He should have snapped at Liam for crossing the physical "tape line" they’d established in the dorm. But his fingers felt heavy, pinned beneath Liam’s calloused palm.

"Look at the curve," Liam whispered, his face inches from Ethan’s as they both stared at the paper. "If you follow the natural flow of the riverfront, the arch doesn't need to be a cage. It should be a bridge. Like this."

Liam picked up a charcoal stick—his signature, messy tool—and drew a bold, sweeping stroke right over Ethan’s precise, light pencil marks.

"You just ruined three hours of work!" Ethan hissed, finally ripping his hand away.

"I just gave your project a heartbeat," Liam countered, his amber eyes locked onto Ethan’s. "Stop trying to control everything, Vance. The world doesn't work in 90-degree angles. Neither do people."

The air between them was suddenly static. Ethan could see the faint gold flecks in Liam’s eyes, the way his eyelashes were thick and dark, and the slight, arrogant curve of his mouth. He hated that mouth. He hated how much he wanted to hear it say his name without a sneer.

"I have to control it," Ethan said, his voice dropping to a whisper that felt far too intimate for a library. "If I don't win this, Liam... I don't have a Plan B. My father doesn't believe in Plan Bs."

Liam’s expression shifted. The smirk vanished, replaced by something Ethan hadn't seen before—recognition.

"The Great Arthur Vance," Liam said softly. "The man who builds monuments to his own ego. Is that who you're trying to please? Because he wouldn't know a good design if it hit him in his Pritzker Prize."

"Don't talk about my father," Ethan snapped, though the fire wasn't there.

"I'm talking about you," Liam said. He reached out, his thumb grazing the side of Ethan’s jaw, a gesture so fast and fleeting Ethan almost thought he imagined it. "You’re better than him. But you’re too scared to show it."

Ethan felt like he was falling. He stood up abruptly, his chair screeching against the floor. "I’m going to get more coffee. Stay away from my sketches."

He practically fled toward the vending machines in the basement. His heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. It’s just the stress, he told himself. It’s the lack of sleep. It’s the Fellowship.

But as he stood in the dim light of the basement, staring at the glowing buttons of the coffee machine, he realized the terrifying truth: He wasn't just competing with Liam Rossi anymore. He was starting to crave him.

When he returned to the table twenty minutes later, the library was even quieter. The sun had set, casting long, bruised shadows across the stacks.

Liam was gone.

Ethan felt a sharp, unexpected pang of disappointment in his gut—until he saw the table. Liam hadn't just left. He had left a small, white paper bag from the campus bakery and a sticky note stuck to Ethan’s coffee cup.

Inside the bag was a pain au chocolat—Ethan’s favorite, though he’d never told Liam.

The note read: Eat something besides caffeine, Vance. Your 'soul-less' arch actually looks decent now. See you at the dorm. Don't be late for the 5:00 AM start.

Ethan sank into his chair, the warmth of the pastry seeping through the bag. He looked at the sketch. Liam’s messy charcoal line and Ethan’s precise pencil marks lived together on the page. They shouldn't have worked, but they did. They looked... beautiful.

He took a bite of the chocolate, the sweetness heavy on his tongue. For the first time in three years, the thought of his father didn't enter his mind.

All he could think about was the heat of Liam’s hand and the way the library felt far too empty without him.