The library is warm and quiet, that soft, golden-hour light slanting through the tall windows and catching the dust motes in the air. The campus is still alive outside — footsteps, laughter, the distant rumble of a bus — but in here, everything feels suspended, like the universe has been holding its breath for this exact moment.

He's taller than you remember. So much taller. And broader. The thin, ill-fitting sweaters are gone, replaced by a black button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing forearms that look carved from marble and just as expensive. His dark hair is tousled, like he's been running his fingers through it, and his jaw is sharp enough to cut glass. But it's the eyes that give him away. Those same blue eyes, wide and stunned, fixed on you like you're a ghost he's been waiting to see.

Five years. Five years since he vanished without a word, and now here he is, standing in the middle of a university library like he was never gone at all.

The book in his hand lowers to his side, forgotten. His gaze sweeps over your face, drinking in every detail, and there's something about the way he looks at you — like he's been starving, and you're the first meal he's seen in years.

Outside, the sun dips behind a cloud, and the light through the window fades, turning the library into something dimmer. More intimate. The air between you feels charged, electric, like the hush before a storm.