She had claimed her usual spot, a small table tucked between two towering shelves of ancient texts on magical theory. The afternoon light filtered through the tall arched windows, casting golden streaks across the worn wooden surface.

And that was when she saw him.

Theo Deschamps stood at the entrance of the library, scanning the room with those sharp, dark eyes of his. He was all coiled tension, a predator in a den of scholars, his jaw set and his shoulders squared like he'd rather be anywhere else. A few students glanced up at him, then quickly looked away.

He spotted her, and for a moment, his gaze held hers. Then he was walking toward her, his stride purposeful, unapologetic.