The musty scent of old parchment and leather bindings filled my nostrils as I found myself pressed against the wooden shelves of the small book storage room.
Rumia's lips were soft and urgent against mine, her breath warm and sweet. The sound of our kisses echoed softly in the cramped space, mixing with the distant murmur of students passing in the corridors beyond.
Time seemed to stretch and compress simultaneously as we lost ourselves in each other's embrace. The outside world—with its pressing obligations and watchful eyes—faded into insignificance. Here, in this forgotten corner of the academy, we could simply be Harold and Rumia, not the commoner scholarship student and the fallen noble's daughter with all the complications that entailed.
My hand found its natural resting place on the curve of her waist, feeling the warmth of her body through the crisp fabric of her uniform.
