Chapter Five

Adrian had chosen the library for its silence.

He needed a place untouched by her presence, a place where the shelves and the muted lamplight might smother the heat still crawling beneath his skin. He’d told himself he was here to focus on research, to recalibrate, to reclaim the equilibrium she’d shattered in his office.

The library had always been sanctuary for him—polished wood tables, narrow aisles, dust-thick quiet. The kind of place where impulse suffocated under the weight of discipline.

But today, even the silence felt thin.

He moved between shelves with a stack of books in hand, trying to pretend his thoughts weren’t circling her like a star around an inevitable gravity. He told himself it would fade. That it had to fade. He just needed time, distance, space free of her scent and her voice and her steady, unblinking gaze.

He reached for a book, flipping through the pages without absorbing anything.

Then he heard it.

A soft laugh.

Warm. Low. Familiar.

His spine locked.

No.

No—she wouldn’t be here.

He had chosen this hour carefully, deliberately, because she never came to the library at this time of day.

But the universe clearly hated him.

He didn’t turn. He didn’t breathe. He simply froze, his fingers tightening around the book as her voice—gentle, amused—floated from the next aisle.

“…no, it’s fine, I’ll find it myself.”

A pause.

Then softer, almost to herself: “It has to be here somewhere…”

His pulse slammed into his throat.

This was wrong. He shouldn’t be listening. He should leave.

He made himself take one slow step back, keeping his head down, preparing to slip away unnoticed.

But as he backed up—

She rounded the corner.

He stopped so abruptly it was almost painful.

Eden froze too, her eyes widening just slightly before that familiar, infuriatingly soft smile curved her lips. Not teasing. Not coy. Just… aware.

“Professor Hale,” she said quietly, her voice too warm for the cold panic sliding through him. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

He swallowed. His throat was dry. “Miss Marlowe.”

She stepped closer—only a little, but enough that he could smell her perfume. Light. Floral. A scent that had clung to his clothes long after she left his office.

He gripped the book so tightly his knuckles whitened.

“Research?” she asked gently.

“Yes.” His voice was too sharp, too fast. “Just catching up.”

She hummed in acknowledgment, brushing her fingers along the spine of a row of books. The gesture was absentminded, innocent—and devastatingly sensual in its ease.

He shouldn’t look at her hand.

But he did.

He always did.

As if she felt the weight of his gaze, she glanced up at him through her lashes.

“I was looking for a text you mentioned in lecture,” she said. “The one on conflicting intentions.”

Of course she was.

He tried to focus on her words, not the way she stood so close the lamplight softened against her cheek, not the way her sweater hugged her waist, not the way her voice dropped a little when she spoke to him in these quiet spaces.

“I can find it,” he said, stepping past her before he could stop himself.

Distance.

He needed distance.

But when he reached for the shelf, she stepped closer—close enough that her warmth pressed into the few inches of air between them.

He went rigid.

“Show me?” she murmured.

God, if she only knew what that did to him.

He pulled the book free, handing it to her without meeting her eyes. But when her fingers brushed his, the contact was light—barely there—and it still shot straight into his spine.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He nodded stiffly, stepping back, desperate for the space. His body reacted anyway—his pulse quickening, heat pooling low and heavy, his breath tightening in his chest.

He turned, intending to leave, flee, hide—anything.

“Professor,” she called softly behind him.

He shouldn’t look.

He did.

She held the book against her chest, her expression unreadable… except for her eyes, which held something quiet, questioning, impossibly intimate.

“You always know exactly what I need.”

His breath caught.

He had no answer.

None he could give.

So he left.

Fast. Too fast. His footsteps were almost rude against the carpet. He didn’t stop until he reached the stairwell, bracing both hands on the cold metal railing as his heart pounded, as sweat prickled beneath his shirt, as the longing clawed up inside him all over again.

Distance wasn’t helping.

Distance was killing him.

And the worst part?

He already knew he’d go back to the library again.

Knowing she might be there.

Hoping she might be there.

Wanting her more than he could stand.