It starts with thunder — deep and rolling across the afternoon sky like a warning. Most students groan, annoyed at the downpour that traps them inside after final period. But for Elara, it's a small reprieve. Rain means fewer people outside, fewer eyes watching.
She heads to the library, hoping to wait out the storm before walking home. But as she pushes the doors open, she finds Jace already there, slouched in a chair by the window, flipping through a tattered copy of Catcher in the Rye.
He looks up. "We keep meeting in libraries," he says.
"Maybe you're stalking me," she replies flatly.
But he just grins and doesn't deny it.
They end up stuck together during a sudden lockdown drill. An automated voice crackles over the intercom, ordering students to stay in place. Jace shrugs. "Guess it's fate."
For the first few minutes, the silence stretches between them, filled with the soft patter of rain against the tall library windows. But then Jace nudges a book toward her — Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar. "Ever read it?" he asks.
"Twice. Once because I had to. Once because I wanted to," Elara replies.
That earns a rare, genuine smile from him. He doesn't say much after that, but something about the way he looks at her shifts — like he's seeing her, not just someone to charm or provoke, but someone real.
Conversation comes easier after that. They talk about books — real ones, not the kind you're forced to analyze. Music, too. Elara's surprised when he knows one of her favorite underground bands. Jace shares that he used to play guitar — used to, until something happened that made him stop. He doesn't say what.
When Elara presses, he changes the subject. "I don't usually stay long in one place."
She raises a brow. "Military family?"
"Something like that," he replies, voice tight.
The intercom crackles again. Drill over.
Before they leave, Jace tears a piece from a notebook and scribbles his number.
"Burn it after," he says.
She doesn't. Instead, she tucks it into her jacket pocket, heart racing — not from the storm, but from the look he gave her right before he turned away.
Later that night, she replays their conversation in her head. His voice. His silences. The way he seemed to flinch at the mention of permanence. She wonders what made him this way. What he's running from. Or who.
The rain hasn't stopped. Lightning cracks across the sky and briefly illuminates her room. She picks up her phone and scrolls to his number. Her finger hovers over it. She wants to text. Ask something. Anything.
Instead, she sets the phone down and pulls out her sketchbook. She draws the library window. Then the chair he sat in. Then, without realizing it, his face. That same half-smile. She flips the page and starts sketching the storm outside her window. A figure begins to take shape — not Jace, but someone darker, taller, cloaked in shadow.
She shivers.
She doesn't notice the shadow outside her window. Watching. Waiting.