The library lamp cast a warm circle on the table, and Marcus was still looking at me like I'd said something in a language he was only beginning to understand. His textbook lay open but his eyes hadn't touched it since I sat back down.

"Both of them?" he asked, his voice low and a little rough. "Isaac and Tony?"

"Isaac and Chloe are still talking over by the stacks," I said, nodding toward the back of the library where I could just make out Chloe's honey-blonde head bent close to Isaac's. "And Tony's out in the courtyard with Mariana. They were laughing when I left them."

Marcus blinked. His hand moved to close the textbook, then stopped, like he'd forgotten what he was doing. "You—you really did that. For them."

"I told you I keep my promises."

The words sat between us, and I watched the way his throat moved when he swallowed. The fluorescent hum seemed to fade, narrowed down to the space where my arm brushed his, where my hair still touched his sleeve.

"I should probably—" he started, glancing at his bag.

"Go," I finished for him, soft. "Yeah. Me too."

But neither of us moved. The moment stretched, thin and warm, until Isaac's laugh broke somewhere behind us and the spell cracked.

Marcus stood, shoving his textbook into his bag, and I rose with him. He was so tall. I'd noticed it before, but standing this close, with the library shelves framing him, I felt it in my chest—the way he made the air around him feel different. Bigger. Safer.

"I'll walk you out," he said, and his ears went red, like he hadn't meant to say it out loud.

"Okay."

We moved through the stacks together, his long legs slowing to match my stride. I could feel the weight of his attention like a hand on my back, even though he wasn't touching me. The exit doors swung open into the late afternoon light, all gold and amber, and the air hit me—warm, with the edge of evening coming.

He stopped at the bike rack, his hands finding the pockets of his hoodie. The gray fabric hung loose on his frame, but I could see the shape of his shoulders underneath, the breadth of him that the baggy clothes tried to hide.

"So," he said. And then nothing else.

I stood there, the concrete warm under my sandals, watching him struggle. His eyes darted to mine, then away, then back. His jaw worked. His fingers curled inside his pockets.

And I couldn't help it. The smile that spread across my face was real, too big to stop.

"You're waiting for something," I said.

"I—I don't—" He stopped. Took a breath. "I just wanted to see you. Before you—before you left."

The words hit me low in my stomach, warm and sharp all at once.

"I'm here," I said, stepping closer. "You're seeing me."

His eyes dropped to my mouth, and I watched him catch himself, watched the flush crawl up his neck. The wind caught his dark brown hair, tousling it, and he didn't push it back. Just stood there, all six-foot-four of him, looking at me like he was the one who should be nervous.

I didn't plan it. Or maybe I did, somewhere deep where planning lives before your brain catches up. I took two more steps, closed the distance between us, and then I was moving—up, toward him, my hands finding his shoulders, my body lifting off the ground.

"L-Lila—"

But he caught me.

His hands came up fast, instinct faster than thought, and one of them landed flat on my ass—palm full against the denim of my skirt, fingers pressing into the curve. The other hand found my waist, thumb hooking just above my hip bone.

I wrapped my legs around him, the hem of my skirt riding up my thighs, the heat of his body seeping through his hoodie. My arms circled his neck, and I was eye level with him now, close enough to count the flecks in his hazel eyes, to see the way the scar through his left eyebrow went white at the edge.

"Lila," he breathed, and the stutter wasn't there. Just my name, said like a question and an answer at the same time.

His hand was still on my ass. I felt him realize it, felt his fingers twitch, but he didn't move them. His face was red—all the way up to his hairline, down his neck, under the collar of his hoodie. His eyes were wide, his mouth slightly open, and he was holding me like I weighed nothing.

"Your hands are warm," I said, and my voice came out lower than I meant it to. Rougher.

"I—I should—" He tried to shift his grip, to move his hand from my ass to my waist, but I locked my ankles tighter and he stopped.

"Don't," I said, soft. "I like it."

He made a sound low in his throat—not a word, not quite a groan. Something in between. His fingers flexed against the curve of my ass, and I felt the heat pool low in my stomach.

I leaned in, my lips brushing the shell of his ear. I felt him shiver, felt the goosebumps rise along his neck.

"Now I can have you all to myself," I whispered.

His breath caught. His chest pressed against mine, hard and broad, and I let the whisper hang there, let the words settle into his skin. Then I parted my lips and let my tongue drag slow across his earlobe, wet and deliberate, tasting salt and the clean scent of him.

"L-Lila—" His voice cracked. Broke. Came out rough and shaky, and I felt it vibrate through his chest into mine.

I pressed closer, let my bare breasts flatten against his chest through the thin cotton of my shirt. No bra. Just me, soft and warm, the fabric doing nothing to hide the shape of my nipples as they grazed his hoodie. I felt his heart—pounding, a wild rhythm against my ribs—and I pressed harder, wanting him to feel every inch of me.

His hand on my ass tightened. The other one slid up my back, his palm flat, his fingers spreading wide like he was trying to hold as much of me as he could. His breath was uneven, coming in short bursts against my neck.

"You're shaking," I murmured against his ear.

"I'm n-not—"

"You are." I pulled back just far enough to look at him. His hazel eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and I could see the pulse beating in his throat. "Are you okay?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Swallowed.

"I don't—I don't understand what's—" He broke off, his brow furrowing. "Why are you—"

I let my thumb trace the line of his jaw, felt the stubble that was just starting to come in. "Because I want to."

"But you—you're you." The words tumbled out, raw and honest. "And I'm—"

"You're Marcus," I said, and I let the weight of it sit in the air between us. "And I've been watching you for weeks."

His throat worked. His hands stayed where they were, one on my ass, one on my back, holding me against him like I was something precious and terrifying all at once.

"Watching me," he repeated, like he was testing the words.

"The way you stutter when you're nervous. The way your friends look at you when you stand up for them. The way you touched that comic like it was made of gold." I let my fingers slide into his hair, soft and dark. "The way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention."

His eyes fluttered closed. Just for a second. Like he was trying to hold onto something that was slipping.

"Lila." My name again, but different this time. Softer. Like it meant something he hadn't said out loud yet.

I felt the shift before I saw it. The tension in his shoulders changing, his hands pulling me closer, his breath evening out. He was still blushing, still red to the tips of his ears, but something in his chest had steadied.

"I don't know what to do with you," he said, and there was almost a laugh in it, a thread of wonder running through the words.

"You don't have to do anything," I said. "Just keep holding me."

He looked at me. Really looked—his hazel eyes searching mine like he was trying to find the angle, the trick, the thing I was hiding. But there wasn't one. Not here. Not now.

I saw the moment he decided to believe it. The way his jaw relaxed, the way his hands softened on my body. The way he let out a breath he'd been holding since I jumped into his arms.

"L-Lila," he said again, and the stutter was back, but it was softer now, almost tender. "I—I don't know what to s-say."

"You don't have to say anything." I brushed my nose against his, just a whisper of contact. "Just let me have this."

His hands tightened on me. One on my ass, warm and broad and real. One on my back, fingers pressing into the space between my shoulder blades. He held me like I was the only solid thing in a world that kept shifting under his feet.

And I held him back.

The campus was quiet around us. The light was going gold and amber, long shadows stretching across the concrete. A few students passed in the distance, their voices low and distant, but none of them mattered. None of them existed.

There was only Marcus. His heart against my chest. His breath warm on my neck. His hands holding me like he was afraid I'd disappear.

"I've never—" He stopped. Started again. "I've never held anyone like this."

I pulled back just enough to see his face. His eyes were earnest, open, vulnerable in a way that made my chest ache.

"Good," I said, and I let my smile go soft. "Then this one's mine."

He let out a sound—half laugh, half breath—and his forehead dropped to rest against mine. His hands slid up my back, his thumbs tracing the edge of my ribs through the thin cotton, and I felt the shudder run through him.

"You're—" He shook his head. "You're a lot."

"I know."

"I don't m-mean it bad." His eyes met mine. "I mean—you're a lot. Like the sun. You can't look at it directly or you'll—" He made a gesture with his chin, helpless. "You'll burn."

The words hit me somewhere I didn't have a name for. Somewhere behind my ribs, below my throat, warm and sharp and entirely unexpected.

"Marcus."

"Yeah?"

I kissed his cheek. Soft. Slow. Let my lips linger against his skin, feeling the heat of his blush. "You're the only person who's ever said something like that to me."

"Is it—is it true?"

"I don't know." I pulled back, met his eyes. "Ask me again in a month."

He smiled. Just a flicker, a ghost of it at the corner of his mouth, but I saw it. I felt it land in my chest like a stone dropping into still water.

"You're still holding me," I said.

"You're still in my arms."

The air between us went thick. The gold light caught the dust motes floating around us, and Marcus's hands tightened on my body, shifting me closer, and I felt the hard line of his chest against mine, the heat of him through the layers of cotton and hoodie.

"L-Lila," he said, and his voice cracked again, but this time there was something else in it. Something raw. "I don't know what I'm—what I'm supposed to—"

"You're not supposed to do anything." I traced the shell of his ear with my fingertip, watched him shiver. "Just feel it."

His eyes searched mine. The scar through his eyebrow went white as he frowned, trying to understand, trying to find the catch. And then something in him let go. I saw it happen—the way his shoulders dropped, the way his breath evened out, the way his hands settled into holding me like he'd been doing it his whole life.

"Okay," he said. Soft. Sure.

I pressed my forehead to his and closed my eyes. The world was warm and gold and smelled like him—laundry detergent, clean skin, something underneath that was just Marcus. His heart was still racing, but his hands had stopped shaking.

And I knew, in that moment, that I would burn this whole campus to the ground before I let anyone take this from me.

"Lila," he said again, and I opened my eyes.

"Yeah?"

His jaw worked. His eyes dropped to my lips, then back up. He swallowed.

"I think—I think I want—" He stopped. Breathed. His hands tightened on my waist, thumbs pressing into the bare skin above the waistband of my skirt. "I want to kiss you."

The words landed like a match dropped in dry grass.

I felt the heat of them everywhere—my chest, my stomach, between my thighs. I felt the way my breath caught, the way my hands tightened in his hair, the way my body pressed closer to his without my permission.

"Then do it," I whispered.

His eyes searched mine. One second. Two. And then he was leaning in, slow, like he was giving me time to pull away, like he was afraid I might.

I didn't move.

His lips brushed mine. Soft. Tentative. A question more than a statement, his mouth warm and slightly chapped, and I felt the world tilt sideways.

I kissed him back.

Not hard. Not deep. Just a press, a settling, a yes that I let him feel through my lips. His breath hitched against my mouth, and his hand slid up into my hair, cradling the back of my head like I was something fragile.

When he pulled back, his eyes were dazed. His lips were parted. His face was the color of a fire truck, and he was looking at me like I had rewritten gravity.

"Okay," he breathed. "That was—"

"Yeah," I said, and my voice came out hoarse. "It was."

He let out a laugh—short, surprised, like he couldn't help it. His forehead dropped to mine, and I felt the smile against my skin.

"I don't know what to do now," he admitted.

"You don't have to know." I ran my fingers through his hair, let them trail down to the nape of his neck. "We've got time."

He nodded against me. His arms tightened, pulling me closer, and I let my head rest against his chest, listening to his heart hammer under my ear.

The light was starting to fade, the gold going orange, the shadows stretching longer. The campus was emptying out, the last few students heading home or to their dorms. But I didn't move. Didn't want to.

"Lila," he said, and his voice had steadied, found a low note I hadn't heard before. "I don't want to let you go."

I tilted my head back, looked up at him. His hazel eyes were soft, his jaw relaxed, his mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile but was close. Closer than I'd ever seen.

"Then don't," I said.

And he didn't.

I felt his hands shift, one sliding down to my thigh, the other settling at the small of my back. He stood there, holding me against the bike rack, the last of the sunlight catching the edges of his hair, and I let myself have it. Every second. Every beat of his heart. Every breath he took that smelled like mint and warmth and the beginning of something I had been waiting for.

The moment hung between us, full and heavy, and I felt the tension in his body change. His breath hitched. His hands tightened. And when he spoke, his voice was low and rough, barely more than a whisper.

"L-Lila."

His stutter broke on my name, and I felt the word in his chest, felt the way it meant more than he could say.