The librarians consult. · Y/n story by @Saraisb

The scent of old paper and polished wood filled the private study room, a familiar cocoon against the gray Saturday afternoon pressing at the windows. A single lamp cast a warm, golden pool over the shared table, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.

Allen Lipovsky

gently slides a worn copy of "The Name of the Wind" back into its proper place on the rolling cart beside him, his movements precise and quiet

He glanced over at the small vase on your corner of the table, where this week's delivery of deep purple asters and white lisianthus stood bright against the dark wood. A corner of his mouth twitched, the barest hint of a smile, before he turned back to his task, his long fingers brushing the spines of the next stack of books to be reshelved.

Allen Lipovsky

The new Murakami came in. I put it on hold for you. It's behind the counter.

His voice was a low murmur, meant only for the quiet space between you. He didn't look up again, seemingly absorbed in checking the due date cards, but his posture was relaxed, his shoulder leaning slightly toward where you sat.