The Library

Lilith

I ’ve always found solace in the silence of books. It’s almost meditative, the way the outside world fades away when I step into The Library, my favorite bookstore. This place is a masterpiece, a cathedral of words. The tall shelves, the smell of aged paper, and the sun filtering through the stained-glass windows make it feel more like a sanctuary than a shop. A place where secrets hide between the lines.

I come here every week. Sometimes more. It’s become my haven from the real world—an escape. As an English Literature major, no one questions my love for books. But no one knows about my obsession with the darker kinds of stories. The ones that feature control, desire, and dangerous love. Dark romances have consumed my mind more than I care to admit. The thrill of forbidden fantasies weaved within the pages of each new book… They make me crave something more.

Today is no different. I scan the shelves, looking for my next fix. Something darker than before, something that will twist my mind in ways I’m too embarrassed to admit aloud. My arms are already full with books when I spot it—the latest in a series I’ve been following. The cover is dark, the edges worn as if it has already lived a life of its own. Perfect.

I turn to head to the checkout when I crash into something—no, someone—solid. The books in my arms spill to the floor, and I lose my balance, falling on my knees along with them.

“Shit,” I mutter, immediately reaching for my fallen books. The weight of embarrassment hits me harder than the fall itself. How many times have I heard Anna teasing me about how the books would eventually swallow me whole? Maybe she was right.

My fingers brush the closest book, but I freeze as I notice a shadow loom over me. I slowly lift my head, and there he is.

He’s tall—taller than anyone I’ve ever met in this town. His broad shoulders cast a shadow over me as I look up from the floor, making me feel small, insignificant. Dark hair curls slightly at the edges, unruly and effortless, framing a face that looks like it was chiseled from stone. His sharp jawline, the angular cheekbones—everything about him seems too perfect, too flawless. But it’s his eyes that capture me.

His eyes are a striking, piercing green, but the right one is unique—split almost perfectly down the middle, with one side a deep brown. The contrast makes his gaze even more intense, as if two sides of him are constantly at war. They stare down at me with an intensity that makes my heart stutter. They’re not the warm, inviting kind of green—they’re cold, calculating. Like they’re stripping me bare with a single glance. For a moment, I’m caught. Held there, suspended in that gaze, until I remember where I am. What just happened. Tattoos cover almost his entire body, a thin silver hoop glints from his nose, and black gauged earrings stretch his earlobes, adding to the edge of danger that lingers in his every movement.

I blink, shaking myself back to reality. My cheeks flush with embarrassment as I scramble to gather my scattered books, hoping to escape this situation before it gets worse. But he doesn’t move. He just stands there, watching me with that same unreadable expression, his eyes following every move I make.

My hands are trembling as I reach for the last book. But before I can grab it, his hand reaches down—slow, deliberate—and picks it up. Not just any book. That book.

The smut book. The one I would rather die than let anyone know I was reading.

I freeze, my breath catching in my throat as he turns it over in his hands, examining the cover with a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. My skin prickles under his gaze, a mix of humiliation and something else—something darker—washing over me.

“Interesting choice,” he says, his voice a low, gravelly hum that sends a shiver down my spine. The way he says it—it’s not just mocking. It’s deeper, more intimate, like he knows exactly what’s in that book. Like he’s already imagining the things it contains.

My mouth goes dry. “It’s… just a book.”

He lets out a sound that might’ve been a laugh, but it’s low, almost a growl. “Is that so?” His tone is mocking, but not harsh. It feels more like a game—one that he’s playing, and I’m not sure of the rules. His mismatched eyes darken, shifting from amusement to something far more dangerous. The weight of his gaze presses down on me, and I feel it all the way to my core.

I force myself to stand, keeping my eyes on the floor, trying to gather what’s left of my dignity. My heart pounds in my chest, a frantic rhythm that I can’t control. He hands me the book, and as our fingers brush, a jolt of electricity shoots through me. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before. My pulse quickens, and heat crawls up my neck, spreading across my skin like wildfire.

I glance up, just for a moment, and his eyes lock onto mine. They’re darker now, more intense, like he’s waiting for something. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to breathe. I feel exposed, vulnerable in a way that scares me.

“Careful, ,” he says, his voice low and dangerous, the way only a fictional antihero should sound. “There are dangerous people out there. People who might be interested in what a girl like you reads.”

The way he says my full name sends a chill down my spine. Not many people use it; most call me Lily. But when it comes from his mouth, it feels different. Like he’s peeled back a layer I didn’t even realize I had. Like he sees something in me I’ve been trying to hide.

I swallow hard, my pulse quickening. “Do I know you?” The words come out smaller than I intended, almost a whisper.

He steps closer, closing the distance between us in one smooth movement. He’s towering over me now, so close I can feel the heat radiating off his body. The air around us thickens, the space between us shrinking until it feels suffocating. My heart slams against my chest, the world narrowing to just him and the dark intensity in his eyes.

He doesn’t answer my question. Instead, he smiles—a slow, deliberate smile that curls at the corner of his mouth. It’s the kind of smile that promises trouble. The kind that pulls you in, even when you know you should run.

“See you around, .”

His voice wraps around me like a shadow, leaving me breathless. And before I can respond—before I can even think—he’s gone. Disappearing into the rows of books as if he were never there at all.

* * *

I throw my new books on my bed as soon as I get into my apartment, my head still spinning from the humiliation of what happened at the bookstore. His face, his piercing green eyes—they haunt me, replaying over and over. The way he looked at me, like he could see through every defense I’ve ever built. My stomach twists at the thought. What was I thinking?

I shake my head and decide a shower might help wash away the unease, along with the embarrassment that clings to me like a second skin. I strip off my clothes, letting the steam from the water fill the small bathroom. I turn on “Middle of the Night” by Elley Duhé on my phone, trying to ease my mind. The heat calms my body, but my mind won’t follow suit. His voice—low, gravelly, and far too intimate—keeps echoing in my thoughts.

“Careful, .”

Even under the hot spray, I can’t shake the feeling that something about that encounter was wrong. Why didn’t I walk away sooner? There was a danger in his presence, something dark lurking beneath the surface, but instead of running from it, I stood frozen, drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

I wrap myself in a towel and head to my bedroom, pulling on my favorite oversized sweatshirt—the one that feels like comfort and safety wrapped around me. Paired with black panties and long wool socks, I settle into my cozy routine. The world outside might be cold, but in here, I’m surrounded by warmth and familiarity. Perfect for forgetting about the stranger who turned my world upside down for a few unsettling minutes.

Before I crawl into bed and lose myself in a new book, I cross the room to shut the window that’s still partially open, letting the chilly autumn air seep in. As I reach for the latch, I pause. My hand stills, and my eyes lock on something outside.

A black Aston Martin DBS Superleggera.

It’s parked directly in front of my building, sitting in the corner of the lot with its lights off. My heart skips a beat, the unease I’d been trying to suppress flooding back. I lean closer to the window, squinting against the darkness. The faint glow of the interior lights reveals a figure inside, sitting motionless. Watching.

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. It can’t be the same car, I try to convince myself. But the knot in my stomach tightens, twisting with a sickening sense of dread. Could it be him? The thought sends a shiver down my spine.

Before I can think too much about it, my phone buzzes on the bed. I tear myself away from the window, grateful for the distraction, and see Anna’s name flashing on the screen. Of course.

Anna: , are you coming out tonight? You better not be hiding away with your books again! We’re young! Don’t waste your prime years reading about fictional men, come live a little!

She always calls me when she’s trying to coax me out of my room, out of the world I’ve built for myself. It’s a ritual at this point—her wild energy against my quiet comfort. And she knows the answer before I even type it. I’m not going out. Not tonight, not any night she drags me to another party where I’ll feel like a ghost drifting in the background.

I don’t even bother responding. Anna never understands why I prefer the company of words to people. To her, I’m wasting my youth, my good years, holed up with stories instead of living my life. But she doesn’t know the thrill I get from those stories—those dark, forbidden fantasies where control is as seductive as danger.

My mind drifts back to the black Aston Martin. My fingers hesitate over the phone, a nagging sensation pulling me toward the window again. Something didn’t sit right when I saw it parked there. I glance back toward the curtains, my heart quickening as the memory of those green eyes flashes through my mind. What if…

I pull the curtains aside and peek out, expecting to see the car still there.

But it’s gone.

I stand there, frozen in place, staring into the empty lot. The unease coils tighter in my stomach, and my hands grip the curtain as if it’s the only thing tethering me to reality. I swear it was just there.

The silence feels suffocating, the street too still. Am I losing it?

I shake my head, trying to shake off the irrational fear creeping up my spine. It’s nothing, I tell myself. Just a random car. The books I’ve been reading—those dark thrillers that blur the line between fantasy and fear—have been getting into my head. That’s all. My overactive imagination.

I pull the curtains closed, shutting out the night and whatever phantoms my mind is conjuring. Crawling into bed, I grab one of the new books from the pile. A smut book. It wasn’t what I planned on reading tonight, but clearly, I need a distraction. Something to pull me away from these ridiculous thoughts. Something to help me forget the haunting, fractured eyed stranger whose voice I can’t shake.

* * *

I open the book, letting the familiar thrill of dark romance consume me, drawing me away from the uneasy reality I’m trying to escape. For a while, I manage to lose myself in the words, the comfort of a world where the danger is controlled, where the fantasy is contained between pages. But as I read, the memory of him lingers like a shadow, creeping in at the edges of my thoughts, blurring the lines between fantasy and reality, as if he stepped right out of the pages—dark, dangerous, and undeniably mine.

That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, but all I can see are his eyes. The way he looked at me. The way he said my name, like he was peeling back layers I didn’t even know I had. There was something about him—something dangerous, something I should have been afraid of.

But I wasn’t. Not really.

A part of me—the dark part I try to ignore—wanted more. I shouldn’t have wanted it, but I did. I wanted to hear him say my name again, to feel the weight of his gaze on me. It was intoxicating, that brief moment of connection, even if it was wrapped in danger.

I roll over, pulling the covers tighter around me, but the thoughts keep swirling, refusing to let go. His smile. His voice. The way he seemed to know something about me that I didn’t want anyone to know.

My eyes drift toward the window again, the cool autumn air still slipping through the crack I left open. The street outside is quiet, the only sound is the distant hum of cars passing by. But then, just at the edge of the parking lot, I see it.

The black Aston Martin DBS Superleggera. Back again.

Sleek. Powerful. Sitting in the shadows with its lights off.

A chill runs down my spine, my pulse quickening. It’s just a car, I tell myself. Just a coincidence. But then I see the faint glow from inside, the outline of someone sitting there. Watching. Waiting.

I step closer to the window, my heart pounding in my chest. I squint, trying to make out the figure inside, but before I can, the car pulls away, disappearing into the night as quickly as it appeared.

I stand there for a moment, staring at the empty space where the car had been. A strange sense of dread tightens in my chest. It’s nothing. I’m imagining things. Too many late nights spent reading thrillers, too many fantasies blending into reality. That’s all it is.

Still, as I crawl back into bed, the uneasy feeling lingers. My mind drifts back to him—his eyes, his voice, the way he made me feel. Exposed. Seen.

“Lily, you’re fucking losing it,” I whisper to myself, pulling the covers over my head, hoping to block out the growing sense of unease.

But no matter how hard I try, I can’t forget the way he said my name.