"Okay, but you have to tell us," Lily said, arms folded like an investigative reporter waiting for a confession.
Zoey leaned across the table in the cafeteria, eyes sharp. "You've been meeting with Austin three times this week. Spill. How's it going?"
I blinked down at my juice box like it suddenly needed analyzing. "It's... going."
Lily raised an eyebrow. "That's not an answer."
I shrugged. "We've outlined the scene, drafted the reflections, and written most of the creative piece."
"Okay, robot," Zoey said. "That's the project. What about you two?"
I tilted my head. "What about us?"
Lily narrowed her eyes. "Anne. You're avoiding something. I know that look. That's your 'I'm hiding a secret but pretending to be chill' face."
"Wow," I muttered. "You should work for the FBI."
"So?" Zoey leaned in. "Anything... suspicious?"
I paused, the memory flickering in — Austin's stolen glances, his voice reading my line aloud like it meant something more. The way he looked at me like I wasn't just a teammate or rival, but something more... readable.
I cleared my throat. "He's tolerable when he's not talking."
Lily and Zoey exchanged a look.
"She's blushing," Zoey whispered.
"I'm not."
"Okay, okay," Lily said with a grin. "We'll let it go. For now. I've got a session with Henry anyway. He still thinks Romeo was the victim."
Zoey rolled her eyes. "I need to meet Daniel. We're doing a rewrite where Juliet leaves him for Paris."
I stood, grabbing my bag. "Good luck with that literary chaos."
"And good luck with yours," Lily sang.
They walked off in opposite directions, leaving me standing in the hallway pretending not to feel weirdly nervous. I checked the time: five minutes past. Austin was never early, but he wasn't usually late, either.
I made my way to the library, trying to shake off the ridiculous flutter in my stomach. It was just a project. Just a table. Just a boy I couldn't stop thinking about.
He wasn't there.
The chair sat empty.
Notebook-less.
Austainless.
I glanced around the room. A few students, scattered. None of them him.
I sighed and turned to leave, hugging my books to my chest, already crafting a dramatic message in my head: "Wow. Flaking on the final act? Bold move."
And then I bumped into someone — hard.
Books flew.
"Oh my God—!" I gasped.
"I've got it," a familiar voice said.
Austin.
Of course.
He dropped to the floor with me, already gathering the spilled notebooks and pens. I reached for the same book — Othello, ironically — and our hands touched.
And stayed there.
The contact was brief. But not nothing.
Not just skin-on-skin.
There was a warmth. A jolt. A static current that froze both of us in place.
His fingers brushed mine, then lingered — just enough for me to forget what I was reaching for.
Our eyes met.
Three seconds.
That's all.
Three impossibly long, breath-holding seconds.
His expression shifted — softer, almost vulnerable — and I couldn't remember what I was supposed to say or do. I wasn't even sure I was breathing.
And then—
Crash.
A student nearby dropped an entire stack of textbooks, scattering them across the tile.
The moment broke.
Austin pulled his hand back quickly, cleared his throat, and stood.
I blinked and looked away, heart pounding like I'd just run a mile barefoot.
He held out the last of my books. "You okay?"
"Yeah," I said, my voice catching. "Fine. I'm... fine."
We both turned toward the library, walking a little slower this time. Not saying much. Not needing to. The silence between us wasn't awkward — it was thick. Heavy with something that hadn't been there before.
When we sat down at our usual table, I could still feel the echo of his touch on my skin.
Neither of us mentioned it.
But when we opened our notebooks again, I caught him glancing my way — just once.
And this time,
I didn't pretend not to notice.
We tried to work.
I really did.
I reread the same paragraph three times and couldn't remember a word of it.
Austin, on the other hand, was pretending to be unaffected — head down, pen moving, the perfect student. But every time I glanced up, he shifted. A flick of the eyes. A twitch at the corner of his mouth.
He knew.
That moment in the hallway?
He felt it too.
And now we were both pretending we hadn't.
I forced my eyes back to my notes.
"Okay," I said, trying to sound normal, like my heart wasn't doing Olympic sprints in my chest. "For the creative part... I was thinking a two-voice poem."
Austin looked up, eyes cautious. "Like, alternating lines?"
I nodded. "Exactly. It reflects both perspectives — Desdemona's heartbreak and Othello's descent. Parallel monologues. It's intimate. Conflicted."
He gave a small, thoughtful smile. "It's... actually brilliant."
I blinked. "You think so?"
He shrugged, but something in his face had softened. "Yeah. It's the kind of thing that'd get a standing ovation if we do it right."
That word again — we.
I swallowed and looked at the page.
"We'll need a few sessions to make it work. Maybe another library day?" I offered, not sure why my voice dropped a little softer than usual.
He hesitated, then said, "Actually... would you be okay working at my place?"
I blinked.
He added quickly, "I mean — the library's fine too, but my cousin's never home and it's quiet. Plus I've got all the Shakespeare resources, and I assume your piano teacher doesn't want me showing up mid-lesson."
I opened my mouth, closed it, then tried again.
"Okay," I said slowly. "Sure. That works."
He looked almost surprised. "Really?"
I raised an eyebrow. "What, you think I'd say no just because your house probably smells like cologne and fragile masculinity?"
He grinned. "I mean… a little. But there's tea and snacks, so I figured it was worth asking."
I smiled despite myself.
"Fine," I said. "But I'm not eating anything unless I see it come out of a sealed wrapper."
He chuckled. "You wound me."
"I plan to."
We worked a little longer — actually worked this time — scribbling down rough lines for the poem, shaping the rhythm, the turns of emotion. And weirdly… the words flowed easier now. Maybe it was the silence between us. Or maybe it was the spark that hadn't quite burned out yet.
We were halfway through Desdemona's last line when he spoke again.
"So," he said, eyes on his page, voice casual. "Are you gonna tell Lily and Zoey you're coming over?"
I smirked. "Why? Worried they'll bring pitchforks?"
He tilted his head, amused. "Maybe just… give them a heads-up. So they don't assume I've kidnapped you for a tragic reenactment."
I laughed. "Fine. I'll text them."
Austin looked at me then — a real look. Not a glance. Not teasing.
"Cool," he said. "I'm looking forward to it."
Something about the way he said it made my chest feel a little too small.
Me too,
I almost said.
Instead, I stood and shoved my books into my bag.
"See you tomorrow."
He nodded, slinging his own bag over his shoulder. "Same time?"
"Same table," I echoed.
But we both knew
the table wasn't really the important part anymore.