The library was the only place in this town that smelled like the past. It was a scent of vanilla, decaying paper, and silence, the kind of silence that didn't feel lonely, just heavy.
Two years ago, I wasn't a "SafeSpace." I was a woman running out of time, my life a series of debts I couldn't pay and shadows I couldn't outrun. I was hiding in the philosophy section, shelf 402, trying to disappear into a book about structural integrity when I heard it.
The sound of a man frustrated with gravity.
I looked through the gap between Principles of Masonry and The Golden Ratio. There he was. He looked out of place among the dust, too sharp, too focused. He was wearing a plain gray sweatshirt that couldn't hide the breadth of his shoulders, and he was staring at a tilted bookshelf like it was a personal insult.
"The center of gravity is off," he muttered to himself.
"It's just an old shelf," I said, my voice cracking the silence.
He froze. His head snapped toward the gap in the books. His eyes weren't just gray; they were the color of a winter sea before a storm. They were predatory, calculating, and then, they were wide with surprise.
In his haste to turn, his elbow caught a stack of oversized art history books he'd piled on a nearby cart. It was a slow-motion disaster. One by one, the heavy volumes slid, hitting the floor with a series of rhythmic thumps that sounded like cannon fire in the quiet room.
Noah scrambled to catch the last one, a massive book on Italian Cathedrals, but his foot slipped on a loose rug. He did a strange, graceful half-stumble, his arms windmilling before he landed hard on his rear, right in the middle of the mess.
I couldn't help it. A snort escaped me. Then a giggle.
Noah looked down at the book in his lap. The cover featuring a very stoic, very judging marble statue and then up at me through the gap in the shelves. The lethal "Architect" aura he'd been radiating vanished, replaced by a deep, sheepish flush that crawled up his neck.
"I believe," he said, holding up the book with mock dignity, "that the structural integrity of this rug is also compromised."
"I think you're just clumsy," I said, finally stepping around the aisle to help him.
"I am not clumsy," he grumbled, though he accepted my hand. His grip was warm, solid, and sent a jolt of electricity up my arm that made my knees weak. "I am... spatially over-aware. The rug was an unplanned variable."
"Right. An unplanned variable." I pulled him up, and for a second, we were standing too close. The laughter died down, replaced by a sudden, heavy heat. He didn't let go of my hand.
He looked down at me, and the humor in his eyes shifted back into that intense, soul-searching gray. "You're holding that book upside down," he noted softly.
I looked down at The Golden Ratio and felt my face heat up. "I wasn't really reading. I was just... hiding."
"From what?"
"Everything."
Noah stepped closer. He didn't touch me with his other hand, but the heat radiating from him was a physical force. He invaded my personal space, but for the first time in my life, I didn't want to back away. I wanted to lean in.
"I'm hiding too," he admitted, his voice dropping to a whisper that felt like a secret shared between two survivors. "Maybe we can hide together. Build a place where the world can't find us. A place with better rugs."
I laughed again, a small, genuine sound that felt like it was breaking a fever. "I'd like that but no".
He reached out, his hand hovering near my cheek, hesitating for a heartbeat before his skin finally touched mine. His thumb was rough, calloused, but his touch was so gentle it hurt.
"I can build you a home," he promised, his eyes locking onto mine with a fierce, terrifying sincerity. "A real one. One that doesn't break."
"I don't doubt that and you're just a clumsy stranger". I giggled
"My name is Noah, You make a good impression and have a huge sense of humour". He says
I laughed quietly and made to exit the Library.
"How about your name". He asked
"Guinevere". I replied and left the library as he stood there staring at me.
I didn't expect to see him again. Men like Noah men with eyes like storm clouds and hands that could fix the world or break it. But three days later, the "unplanned variable" returned.
I was at the edge of the town's small, overgrown park, sitting on a bench with a takeout coffee that had gone cold. It was raining, one of those gray, persistent mists that seeped into your bones.
Noah was standing a few feet away, holding a massive, black umbrella that looked sturdy enough to weather a hurricane. He was dressed in a dark work jacket, his hair damp and curling at his temples.
"You're following me, Clumsy Stranger," I said, a small smile despite the cold.
"I prefer 'Spatially Over-Aware Stranger'," he countered, stepping closer to pull me under the dry sanctuary of his umbrella. "And I wasn't following you. I was... surveying. This park is a blueprint for a disaster."
"Everything in this town is a blueprint for a disaster," I whispered, my voice caught in the rain.
Noah sat down beside me. The bench was narrow, and the heat from his body hit me instantly, a sharp contrast to the damp air. He didn't ask if he could sit. He just claimed the space next to me.
"I went back to the library," he said, staring at the rusted swings. "I fixed the rug. And I looked for Guinevere."
"I was hiding again," I admitted, looking at my boots.
"You don't have to hide from me." He reached out, and this time, he didn't hesitate. "I've been looking for a reason to stay in this town, Guinevere. I think I just found it."
I looked at him, and for a second, the rain seemed to stop. The intensity in his gaze was terrifying, fierce, obsessive devotion that should have made me run. But I saw the loneliness in him, a reflection of my own. We were two broken structures leaning against each other so we wouldn't fall.
"I'm a lot of work, Noah," I warned.
"I'm an architect," he replied, his thumb tracing the back of my hand with a slow, possessive rhythm. "I don't mind the work. I just want to make sure the foundation is solid."
"Let me walk you home, Gwen. Let me see where you live, so I can start figuring out how to make it safe." He leaned in, his face inches from mine.
I should have said no.
"Okay," I whispered.