The library was supposed to be neutral ground.

No eye contact. No awkward silences. No hoodie girl breathing the same air as me like I’m a virus she can’t shake.

But of course she’s here.

She’s sitting one table over. Back straight. Sleeves pulled down. Writing like it’s a performance review and the paper’s on trial for war crimes.

I should ignore her.

I try.

For maybe five seconds.

Then I lean back in my chair and speak low, just loud enough for her to hear.

“Let me guess. You picked this table because it’s closest to the emergency exit.”

She doesn’t answer.

Of course she doesn’t. She's practically allergic to my voice.

I keep going anyway.

“Or because the camera doesn’t cover this angle. You know. In case you needed a clean shot.”

Her pen pauses. That’s all I get. But it’s enough to know she’s listening.

I smirk and tap my own pen against my lip.

She looks up—just once. Sharp. Fast.

“You following me?” I ask, resting my chin in my hand.

“No,” she says flatly. “You’re just everywhere I don’t want you to be.”

Ouch.

But also? Fair.

“That sounds suspiciously like fate,” I say.

She returns to her notes like I’m nothing.

Still, I keep talking.

Low. Calm. Dangerous in that way I know I am when I want to be.

“I bet your blood type is caffeine.”

No reaction.

“You ever blink?”

Nothing.

“Do you own anything that’s not gray?”

She twitches.

Just slightly.

Like she almost smiled.

And for one ridiculous second, it feels like I won.

But when she gathers her things and walks away, I can’t help watching her go.

Not because I’m suspicious.

Not because I’m bored.

But because something about her makes me feel like I’m the one being tracked.