They moved the chairs first.

Liam carried two at a time, setting them in a loose semicircle near the front desk where the flashlight cast its soft halo. Sienna gathered a few small side tables, dragging them closer, creating a makeshift island of space in the dim library.

A couple of patrons watched quietly as the room shifted around them.

“We’re going to stay open a little longer,” Sienna told them, voice calm even as the rain rattled the windows. “At least until the weather eases up.”

One older woman, wrapped in a thick coat and scarf, gave a grateful nod. “It’s nicer here than out there, dear.”

A teenager with headphones around his neck slouched into one of the chairs, hugging his backpack to his chest like a pillow. Another patron, a man in a worn jacket, settled carefully on the edge of a seat, eyes still adjusted to the low light.

The library felt different now—not a public building, but a shared living room made of paper and quiet and rain.

“Do we have candles?” Liam asked under his breath.

“No open flames near the books,” Sienna replied automatically.

He grinned. “Didn’t realize you were such a rebel.”

She gave him a look. “That’s the opposite of rebellion.”

“Rules are relative.”

“Not those.”

He laughed softly, then lowered his voice. “Okay. No candles. Just us, one flashlight, and sheer emotional resilience.”

She didn’t smile outright, but the corners of her mouth twitched.

“Do you want to sit?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I’ll stand. You’re better at… this.”

“At what?”

He gestured vaguely to the small cluster of people. “Making things feel less like an accident and more like a choice.”

She stared at him, caught off guard by the accuracy of it.

“I just don’t want anyone stuck in the storm,” she said quietly.

“Exactly,” he replied.

She took a breath and stepped forward—into the light, into the small circle they’d created together.

“We might be here for a little while,” she said to the group. “If anyone wants something to read, I can show you where the returns cart is. Or you can stay here and listen to the rain. It’s… not the worst company.”

That earned a small chuckle from someone. The tension in the room loosened an inch.

Liam leaned against the counter behind her, close enough that she could feel his presence at her back. Not crowding. Just there.

The older woman raised a hand. “Do you read out loud?”

Sienna blinked. “Sometimes. For the children’s group. On Saturdays.”

“Well, there are no children here,” the woman said, adjusting her scarf, “but I wouldn’t mind listening.”

The teenager muttered, “As long as it’s not about talking animals, I’m in.”

Liam’s voice was a quiet nudge at her shoulder. “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” she replied.

But she wanted to.

She walked toward the nearest shelf by instinct alone, fingers brushing familiar spines. In the low light, she chose a slim volume whose cover she recognized purely by touch.

When she returned to the small circle of chairs, every pair of eyes was on her—some curious, some tired, all waiting.

She opened the book. The pages glowed faintly under the flashlight’s spill.

Her voice started soft. Tentative.

But the words she read were steady, carried by the rhythm she’d long ago learned from reading alone to empty rooms. Only this time, she wasn’t alone.

The rain became a backdrop, a persistent percussion behind the cadence of her voice. The patrons shifted, then stilled, their bodies relaxing into chairs. The teenager slouched deeper, eyes half-closed but listening. The older woman smiled faintly, her hands folded in her lap.

Liam didn’t sit. But he didn’t move either.

He stood just behind her shoulder, his expression hidden from her, his attention unmistakable in the way his breathing matched the pace of her words.

After a few pages, Sienna realized something strange.

She wasn’t nervous anymore.

The dark, the rain, the faces turned toward her—they didn’t feel like weight.

They felt like warmth.

When she paused to turn a page, Liam shifted slightly.

“You’re good at this,” he murmured quietly.

She didn’t look back. “At reading?”

“At making it feel like home,” he said.

Her fingers hesitated on the edge of the paper. The word sank in deeper than she was ready for.

“Keep going,” the teenager said from his chair, sounding unexpectedly invested.

Sienna cleared her throat. “Right.”

She kept reading.

Time lost its edges. The chapter unfolded. The rain shifted between loud and soft, wind occasionally brushing against the windows like a passing thought. The darkness no longer felt like an interruption—it felt like part of the room.

By the time she closed the book, the storm had softened. The windows showed a gentler version of the world outside—wet, reflective, but not harsh.

“Looks like it’s letting up,” Liam said.

The man in the worn jacket stood, stretching stiffly. “Thank you,” he said to Sienna. “For the shelter.”

“It’s what we’re here for,” she replied.

One by one, the patrons gathered their things, moving toward the door. Some offered quiet goodbyes. Others simply nodded. The older woman lingered a moment longer.

“You have a good voice for storms,” she told Sienna. “Not everyone does.”

Sienna didn’t quite know how to respond. “Thank you.”

When the door closed behind the last of them, the library felt strangely full despite being empty.

The flashlight still cast its gentle circle near the counter. Sienna and Liam stood within it.

“That was…” he started.

“Weird?” she offered.

He shook his head. “Warm.”

She exhaled, a sound that was almost a laugh. “I haven’t done that in a long time. Not like that.”

“It suited you,” he said.

She turned toward him. “Standing in the dark reading to strangers?”

“Standing in the dark,” he corrected, “and making it less scary.”

She looked at him for a long moment.

“Who does that for you?” he asked quietly.

She wasn’t ready for the question.

“I mean,” he added quickly, “everyone deserves someone who makes the quiet feel safe.”

She swallowed. “I don’t know if I have that.”

His eyes searched hers, gentle and unwavering. “You could.”

The lights flickered back on then—sudden, bright, jarring. Both of them squinted against the shock of it.

“See?” Liam said, blinking. “The universe is deeply allergic to sincere moments.”

Sienna laughed—a soft, startled sound that felt like something breaking open and not hurting when it did.

The flashlight’s beam, no longer needed, faded into insignificance.

But the small circle of warmth it had created remained.

Even after they turned it off.