Sarah escaped the moment Adam stepped away to take a business call.
Her heart was still fluttering from everything — his mother, the kiss, the expectations, the house.
She needed air.
Peace.
Something familiar.
The library felt like a secret world tucked inside the mansion — warm light, shelves climbing toward the ceiling, and books arranged with the kind of care only someone who loved stories would understand.
Her fingers trailed along the spines until something colorful caught her eye.
Manhwa.
Actual, physical manhwa — printed, bound, gorgeous.
Not the low-resolution free chapters she used to read at 2 AM on her cracked phone.
She picked one up and glanced at the price.
"$1000?!" she yelled — then froze, eyes wide.
She slapped a hand over her mouth.
"…oh god," she whispered, cheeks burning. "Act normal. Act rich."
She leaned back against the wall and opened to the first pages.
Her brows slowly rose.
Then her eyes widened.
By page six, she screamed — not loud, but a mortified chirp of shock.
"What is it?"
A familiar voice.
She looked up.
Adam stood at the doorway, expression carved in concern — until his gaze flicked to the open page.
The corner of his mouth curved.
Slow.
Knowing.
Dangerous in a way that warmed her spine.
Sarah fumbled, shutting the manhwa too late.
"I—I wasn't— It's not—I just—" she stuttered.
He walked closer.
Quiet steps.
No hurry.
Like a man already certain of the ending.
"Let me see," he murmured.
"No!" She bent to grab the book — and so did he.
They collided — lightly — her palms braced against his chest.
She froze.
So did he.
Her breath was shallow.
His was soft, steady, but not casual — never casual.
Sarah lifted her eyes.
Light brown, warm, gentle — but burning underneath.
Something fragile and electric passed between them — a realization neither could unfeel.
Adam's voice was barely above a whisper.
"Sarah."
He didn't kiss her mouth at first.
He leaned closer, brushed his lips against the side of her neck — featherlight, reverent.
Her breath caught, a small sound she didn't mean to make.
His hand slid to her back, steady, anchoring.
"Tell me to stop," he said.
She didn't.
She couldn't.
Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.
His forehead rested against hers — a moment of stillness that said everything.
The world outside disappeared.
The library softened around them.
The pages fell shut.
What happened next wasn't rushed, or clumsy, or taken.
It was chosen.
Two people crossing a line neither of them wanted to step back from.
The night blurred into warmth — and closeness — and the quiet understanding that they belonged to each other long before either one had spoken it aloud.
When it was over, Adam carried her — carefully, as if she were made of breath and light — to his room.
He settled her into the sheets, brushed her hair from her forehead, and stayed close enough that she could feel the tremor in his own heartbeat.
His voice was a whisper in the dark.
"You made me wait for so many years, Sarah."
She didn't know what that meant yet.
But she would.