The library was supposed to be quiet at this hour.
Not silent—never silent, not in the campus community center—but quiet enough that I could shelve the last stack of returns without wanting to tear my hair out. Yet somehow, even surrounded by books and fluorescent lights, peace remained impossible.
Because of him.
I felt his breath before I heard him—warm, slow, and intentionally sultry, brushing across the side of my neck like he'd practiced it in the mirror. A shiver raced down my spine, traitorous and irritating, and I clenched the book in my hands.
I didn't even bother turning around.
"I'm trying to put these books back," I snapped, heat rising in my cheeks. "Quit distracting me."
A low chuckle vibrated behind me, way too close.
"Just checking in on your progress, Miss Librarian."
That did it.
I spun around, and there he was—Kael Hart. My best friend of thirteen years. Six feet of smug confidence leaned casually against a shelf, arms crossed, head tilted like he knew he was trouble.
Which he did. He absolutely did.
His grin spread even wider, and something in my chest tightened in a way I refused to acknowledge. "You look stressed," he said. "Thought I'd brighten your evening."
"By breathing on me?" I demanded.
"Apparently it worked."
God, I wanted to throw a dictionary at his head.
Instead, I turned back to the shelf, forcing the book into its proper place before I did something stupid. Like whip around, grab him by the shirt, and shove him against the bookcase just to see that smirk slip.
"I'm almost done," I muttered. "Then we'll head back to the loft."
"I'm aware," he said, somehow even closer despite not making a sound. "You were supposed to clock out twenty minutes ago. And since someone is my ride home…"
"Don't remind me."
Living with him had not been my brightest idea. On paper, it made sense—we've been inseparable since childhood, and splitting rent at the loft kept us both sane (financially, anyway). But I hadn't accounted for…this. For the way he had grown into that body, that face, that voice that dipped too low when he teased me. For the way he hovered behind me now, his warmth pressed against the thin air between us, turning a mundane task into some kind of challenge.
Kael Hart was a walking complication wrapped in lazy grins and half-buttoned shirts.
"Do you know what your problem is?" he asked quietly.
"No," I said sharply. "But I have a feeling you're going to tell me."
"You pretend like you don't like it when I bother you."
I froze.
The book in my hand suddenly weighed a hundred pounds. The room felt smaller, like the shelves were leaning in, waiting for my response. Slowly, I looked over my shoulder.
His eyes were warm—too warm—and something like curiosity flickered there. Or maybe it was knowing. He always knew the wrong things about me.
"You're full of yourself," I said finally.
"And you're red," he countered.
"I'm annoyed."
"Sure."
I glared at him. "Fine. Give me five minutes and we can go home."
He pushed off the shelf, hands slipping into his pockets. "Take your time. I'll be over there… not breathing on you." He smirked again. "Unless you miss it."
I nearly chucked a book at his retreating back.
As he walked toward the seating area, I wondered—not for the first time—how my life had ended up like this. I was twenty years old, sharing a loft with my infuriating, attractive best friend, chauffeuring him everywhere, feeding him like I was his tired mother, and somehow fighting the urge to slam him against a bookcase every time he smirked at me.
He was only one year younger, but he depended on me like he was still fifteen and I was the only person who could drag him out of trouble. A part of me knew I enabled it. A larger part of me questioned why I put up with it.
And the smallest part—the dangerous part—wondered what exactly would happen if I ever called his bluff.
I slid the final book into place and exhaled.
Five minutes. Then we'd go home.
And maybe, if I was lucky, I could get through the car ride without imagining the feel of his breath on my neck all over again.