The next morning, Nayla found herself standing in front of the university library. She hadn't been here in weeks, buried in projects and avoiding crowds as usual. But today, she needed quiet the kind of quiet only shelves of books could provide.
She walked inside, the smell of paper and ink welcoming her like an old friend. The tall windows let in streams of sunlight, dust motes dancing lazily in the beams.
Nayla made her way to her usual corner, the farthest table tucked between philosophy and history. She pulled out her laptop, opened her notes, and tried to focus.
But her thoughts wandered.
Last night. To the balcony. To Raka's words: You're allowed to need me.
Her chest tightened again, the memory raw and fresh. She hated how much it echoed inside her.
"Mind if I sit here?"
The voice jolted her. Nayla looked up, startled. Of course, it was him. Raka stood there with two cups of coffee, grinning like he'd just uncovered her secret hideout.
"You what are you doing here?" she asked, a little too sharply.
He shrugged, setting the coffee down. "Studying. Same as you."
"This is the library."
"Yes," he said, smirking. "And I'm a student. Unless you forgot."
Nayla glared, but it did not affect him. He slid into the chair across from her like he belonged there.
"You're impossible," she muttered.
"And you like it," he shot back, sipping his coffee.
For a while, they worked in silence, her typing, him flipping through notes. But Nayla's concentration fractured with every glance he stole at her, every small smile he wore like he knew what she was thinking.
Finally, she snapped her laptop shut. "Do you have to sit here?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I like being near you," he said simply. No hesitation. No embarrassment. Just truth.
Her cheeks burned. "You say things like that so easily."
"That's because I mean them."
The words hung heavy in the air between them. Nayla looked away, pretending to rearrange her notes. But her hands shook slightly, betraying her.
Raka leaned forward, lowering his voice. "You don't have to run from it, Nay."
She froze.
"Run from what?"
"From this." He gestured lightly between them. "From us."
Her heart raced. The library suddenly felt too quiet; every sound amplified the rustle of pages, the click of pens, her own uneven breathing.
She wanted to argue. To deny. To retreat into the safety of distance. But the words wouldn't come.
Instead, she whispered, "You don't know what you're asking."
Raka's eyes softened. "Then let me find out."
It was such a simple answer, yet it unraveled her carefully built defenses. He wasn't demanding. He wasn't pushing. He was just… there. Waiting.
Her throat tightened, but she managed to whisper, "You're exhausting."
He chuckled. "Then I'll make you coffee every time. Balance it out."
Despite herself, Nayla laughed small, reluctantly, but real.
And in that library corner, surrounded by shelves of forgotten histories, she realized something terrifying and beautiful:
Raka wasn't just finding his way into her days. He was carving a place inside her that she didn't know existed.
And the scariest part?
She was letting him.