The library was quieter than usual. The soft hum of ceiling fans mixed with the rustle of pages and the occasional squeak of a chair against the tiled floor. He sat by the far window, sunlight falling unevenly across the table, highlighting the faint shadows beneath his eyes.

Tomorrow was the presentation - the one they had been working on for weeks. The slides were ready, the data finalised, the content rehearsed. All that remained was to finalise how it would flow - who would start, who would wrap up, and where they'd transition.

Lucen liked things to make sense — tidy slides, clear logic, balanced flow. Structure was how he kept the world quiet. Between coursework, long commutes, and a house that was often too still, order was the one thing that belonged only to him.

He wasn’t the loud type; people came to him when they needed calm, not noise. His friends joked that he was “the pause” in every conversation. But silence had never scared him — it steadied him. Maybe that’s why Elara’s quiet didn’t unsettle him the way it did others. It mirrored his own.

He adjusted his screen, glancing at the handwritten notes beside him - hers. Neat, crisp handwriting, methodical and exact. It almost amused him how her writing mirrored her personality.

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to focus on the outline of the presentation, but his thoughts refused to settle. Now and then, uninvited, the image of her at the décor store slipped into his mind - standing beside her mother, that soft, unexpected smile, the ease in her face that he'd never seen in class.

He exhaled quietly and shook his head, as if the motion could push the thought away. Why is she still in my head? He wondered. He wasn't someone who noticed girls - he'd never cared to. He liked things simple, predictable. But this felt… different. Not infatuation, not fascination - just a quiet curiosity he couldn't quite name.

When she finally walked into the library, he looked up instinctively. She was carrying a stack of papers, her steps steady, her expression as composed as ever. No makeup, no extra effort - just the same understated calm she always carried.

She nodded politely before sitting across from him. "Sorry, the printer was slow," she said, setting the papers down.

He smiled faintly. "No problem."

There was no small talk, no unnecessary words. She opened her notes, he adjusted his laptop screen, and the silence between them settled into something easy. Professional. Focused.

She flipped open her notebook, scanning her bullet points. "So, for tomorrow, I think it's best if you start with the introduction. You're better at explaining the data part anyway. I'll handle the conclusion and recommendations. That'll give the presentation a smoother flow."

He nodded. "That works. I'll make sure the transition slide aligns with that."

They fell into a rhythm - trading lines and ideas with quiet efficiency, words clipped but never curt. It was easy working with her. She was structured, careful, and knew exactly what she wanted to say. Still, as he listened to her explain how she'd summarise their findings, another thought nudged quietly at the back of his mind.

She was a shy girl - he could tell from the way she spoke softly, her eyes rarely lingering for long. And he couldn't help but wonder, How will she manage to stand there tomorrow, in front of everyone, and speak with that same calm she wears now?

The thought stayed with him for a moment, gentle but persistent. But then he brushed it off with a faint smile.

Their conversation moved smoothly, like a well-rehearsed routine - brief exchanges, clear agreements, no pauses long enough to turn personal. And yet, every time she looked down at her notes, he found himself watching for a second longer than he should. The way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the way her brows furrowed slightly when she thought - it shouldn't have mattered, but it did.

He told himself it was just because she was a good project partner - disciplined, precise, efficient. But deep down, he knew it was something else. Something that made the silence between them feel charged in the smallest, most unspoken way.

From her side of the table, the world looked simpler.

She was relieved they were finally wrapping up the project. Tomorrow was the big day - the presentation. Today was only for the finishing touches: the flow, the timing, and deciding who would speak where.

It was all simple, business-like - no small talk, no unnecessary comments. And yet, something unspoken lingered between them. They both remembered Saturday - that unexpected encounter at the décor store. But neither mentioned it. Maybe because it was too coincidental. Or maybe because it was easier this way - keeping things professional, uncomplicated. That was how she stayed comfortable.

And yet… today felt slightly different.

She could feel his gaze sometimes - never intrusive, just quietly aware. When he spoke, his tone was calm, his words measured, but there was a quiet confidence beneath them. Not arrogance - something steadier. It was the kind of assurance that didn't need to be loud to be felt.

It surprised her, if she was honest. She'd always thought of him as just another quiet boy - someone who blended into the background, spoke when required, and disappeared into his own world afterwards. But sitting here, discussing data and slides, she realised there was more to him than she'd thought.

He was composed, yes, but also deliberate. His thoughts were clear, his tone thoughtful. When he disagreed, he did it gently, explaining rather than correcting. It made her pause - because she wasn't used to that kind of calmness from people her age.

At one point, when she looked up from her notes, their eyes met briefly. It wasn't anything significant - just a glance - but she looked away a heartbeat later, her pulse quickening for reasons she couldn't explain.

And as she returned to her notes quickly, "So we'll end it on the visual analysis slide?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied, almost too quickly. "After that, I'll conclude with our summary points. It shouldn't take more than fifteen minutes total."

They reviewed the slides one last time, deciding who would handle which section. She scribbled quick reminders in her notebook, her handwriting neat even in haste.

And that was it. The moment folded neatly between their words, unacknowledged but felt all the same.

When she left the library that evening, she told herself it had been a productive study session. Nothing more, nothing less.

But as she walked down the corridor, her thoughts replayed fragments of the conversation - the way he spoke, his quiet tone, that steady look in his eyes. She shook her head slightly, as if brushing off a thought she didn't want to linger on.

Back at the table, he watched her leave, the corners of his mouth lifting in a small, unthinking smile. Then he exhaled, leaning back in his chair, staring at the empty seat she had just left.

Strange, he thought again. How something so ordinary could feel like it meant something.