They strolled side by side through the quieter part of campus, bags thumping against their backs, the only sound the crunch of gravel underfoot.
"So," Damien said, throwing her a sidelong glance, "are we actually going somewhere or just vibing through the great unknown?"
Isabelle grinned. "You'll see."
"That's not ominous at all," he muttered. "Should I be worried?"
"It's a little old library," she offered, her voice teasingly vague. "Near the back of the east gate. It's really quiet. Not many people know about it."
"Not many people go there," Damien echoed, raising a brow. "A secret lair?"
She gave him a look. "A calming one. With real wooden shelves, the smell of old ink, and that nostalgic book scent. Trust me."
"You're literally luring me to a mysterious vintage book sanctuary," he pointed out.
"And yet," she said, holding her hands up, "you're still following me."
Damien gave her a sideways look, lips twitching. "You really live up to your name, huh? Belle. The book-loving main character."
Isabelle groaned. "It's not that dramatic. And for the record"—she tilted her head—"it's Isabelle."
Damien raised an eyebrow. "Belle's cuter." He shrugged, still grinning. "Also, I'm just saying—the resemblance is kind of criminal. Hidden libraries, dramatic flair, zero fear of wandering into strange places…"
"And I suppose you're the grumpy recluse with secrets?" she teased.
He looked away for a beat, the grin fading to something smaller. "Well... I've been called worse."
Isabelle blinked at the shift. Her steps faltered for a split second.
But he didn't look her way. Just kept walking steadily beside her, as if he hadn't said anything strange at all—like that quiet confession hadn't meant a thing.
The library loomed ahead, older than most buildings—arched windows, sun-faded stone, tucked between creeping ivy and the faint scent of old wood and lemon.
Damien held the door open with a mock bow. Isabelle rolled her eyes and stepped past.
The second they stepped inside, the world seemed to shift.
Not with drama—but with a hush.
Light pooled through rounded overhead vents, catching on strands of glass suncatchers that dangled like hidden treasure—casting rainbows across the worn wooden floorboards.
A jute rope hung near the door, strung with five bronze bells shaped like mid-bloom flowers. They chimed gently as the door clicked shut behind them—a soft shimmer of sound.
Muted silence. Dust motes dancing in sunbeams. Wooden shelves stacked higher than any reasonable person could reach. Everything smelled faintly of old pages, pinewood, and something softer like dried ivy and time. The floor creaked gently beneath their feet.
It felt less like a library and more like a forgotten cottage tucked in some parallel world.
Sunlight filtered through stained-glass panels—violet, honey-gold, and moss green—painting the reading desks in gentle color. Ivy curled around the window frames.
Golden desk lamps flickered in tiny reading nooks. A golden bell hung near the front counter. The ladders along the shelves gleamed with their wooden rails polished from years of reaching.
Damien glanced, his eyes roaming around, visibly impressed. "Okay, I'll admit it—this place…is magical."
Isabelle only nodded, her gaze slow and searching—like if she blinked, it'd vanish.
"I've never actually been inside," she said.
He blinked. "Wait, seriously?"
She gave a small, almost sheepish smile. "I found it just before the semester started. I'd gotten here early—new city, no one I knew. I walked around a lot. Came across this place, peeked through the windows."
A pause.
"I wanted to go in. But… I didn't."
She trailed off, her fingers brushing the strap of her bag. She didn't need to explain it, really—the weight of stepping into a place alone. The way your feet hesitate when your mind's running wild. And the space is one you don't feel sure you belong in yet.
Damien glanced sideways at her, his voice quieter this time.
"Well… you're not alone now."
It wasn't dramatic. Just fact.
Isabelle looked at him then—and it wasn't smug or teasing like usual. Just honest.
"Hmm," she hummed. "It feels quite good now."
She smiled, barely. And it wasn't because of the books, or the bells, or the rainbows dancing on the floor. It was because she wasn't walking in by herself.
For a single heartbeat, the library felt smaller—like it had shrunk to fit just the two of them.
Then Damien looked away. Cleared his throat, quiet and low. Shifted the strap on his shoulder like it needed adjusting.
Isabelle blinked, like coming out of a daze, and turned toward the nearest shelf.
Damien let out a low whistle, easing the moment. "I can see why you'd sneak off here."
She turned to him, already drifting toward a familiar aisle. "This way. They've got a mythology section that'll knock your socks off."
"I'm not wearing socks," he muttered under his breath, trailing behind.
Then, louder: "Also—how'd you know where the mythology section is?"
Isabelle didn't even turn around. "Lucky guess."
He narrowed his eyes. "You've never been here before, right?"
She paused, then peeked over her shoulder with a sly smile.
"I said I hadn't been inside. Didn't say I hadn't done a little window-snooping."
Damien shook his head, half-laughing. "You're unbelievable."
"Mmhm. But there you are," she shot back, disappearing into the aisle.
They split briefly—Isabelle wandering into mythology, Damien lingering by a shelf of graphic novels.
His fingers skimmed a familiar spine, but his eyes drifted back to her—already halfway across the row, scanning titles like she was choosing between horcruxes.
"Hey," she called softly, holding up a thick paperback.
The cover gleamed under the library lights—greenish-blue, like seawater at dusk. A lone boy stood with his back turned, silhouetted against crashing waves. A sword hung in his hand, the hilt catching the light as a battered boat rocked behind him.
Bold silver letters arched across the top: Percy Jackson. And beneath that, smaller in red: The Sea of Monsters.
Damien glanced over.
His gaze landed on the book—lingered there just a second too long, his fingers curled slightly against the spine he'd been touching. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile.
Then he blinked, once. Cleared his throat.
"...Good pick," he said, voice steady. "Second in the series."
Isabelle's eyes lit up. "I used to love these," she said, almost bouncing in place. "This one was my favorite for the longest time."
Damien nodded toward the shelves again. "There's more on the left."
Isabelle turned, eyes already scanning the towering rows like a kid in a candy store. "How is this place not packed? Like, daily?"
"Guess not everyone likes to read," Damien said dryly, trailing a few steps behind.
"Well, they're missing out," she murmured, tipping her head back to squint at the higher shelves. Her gaze landed on another familiar title—just barely out of reach.
She rose onto her toes. Wobbled. And promptly dropped back down.
Damien watched her struggle in silence, arms crossed and eyebrow raised.
She tried again—one hand braced against the shelf, the other stretching upward.
Still too far.
"There's a ladder," Damien said mildly, nodding down the aisle. "About four shelves over. But…"
They both glanced toward the far end, where it sat—massive, wooden, and very much locked to the opposite shelf, which, annoyingly, wasn't even that tall.
"Guess someone needed it there more," he added with a helpless shrug.
Isabelle blew a piece of hair from her face. "Great." She tried again—another little bounce.
Damien didn't move. Just watched her, amused.
"You're not gonna climb that, are you?"
"I'm considering it."
He gave a small laugh. "You'll take out half the library if you do. Please don't get us banned."
Isabelle glanced back at him with a huff. "Wow. So rude. I haven't even fallen yet."
Damien gave a small sigh, the kind that said she was leaving him no choice. He stepped behind her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him behind her.
He reached up.
Isabelle didn't move. Didn't breathe.
They both had their arms raised, his easily stretching past hers. Side by side, her knuckles brushed his wrist. His sleeve grazed the side of her cheek.
She froze.
He plucked the book from the shelf like it had been sitting at eye level.
His gaze lowered to her, and he leaned forward—just slightly, adjusting his reach.
He handed her the book. Their fingers touched—just a soft, passing contact.
But she still felt the heat of him—his breath near her hairline, barely above. It stirred a strand of her bangs.
Her heart slammed—once. Then again.
She stepped back, a little too quickly. Cleared her throat. "Show-off."
Damien's mouth twitched. "Just tall."
She scowled. "Unnecessarily tall."
His grin was pure evil. "Still useful, though."
She walked toward the front desk, steps light and uneven.
He followed her, still wearing that bright and cheeky grin.
Isabelle held the books to her chest. Damien's hands were empty.
They neared the corner turn—and he slowed.
His eyes flicked sideways.
There it was again. That book. That cover. That spine. Old and familiar.
He didn't reach for it. But his steps faltered—barely a second—and then he moved on.
Isabelle blinked, glancing at him. She caught the shift in his face.