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Three times I reach, three times they slide away. A thin manuscript slams itself shut with a puff of dust that tastes like disapproval. My skin begins to blister where the books reject me—tiny, raised welts forming on my fingertips. The pain is immediate, like touching acid.

“Are you giving the poor books trust issues, Professor Morgan?”

The warm voice hits me low in the stomach, a jolt radiating outward. Not danger—something I’ve never felt before.

Finnian Willowheart stands nearby, mouth curving up at one corner. Linen shirt open at the collar, fitted trousers, vest with rippling patterns. The scent of bergamot and old books drifts from him, mixed with something indefinably green.

But beneath that, something else. Candlelight and honey, sweet warmth making my mouth water involuntarily.

My eyes snag on the hollow of his throat, the pulse visible there. His dark hair falls loose around flushed features.

“Either I’ve personally offended your literature, or your library has commitment issues,” I say, gesturing at the retreating books while fighting the urge to step closer to his warmth. “Though given my track record with making things run away from me, I’m betting on the former.”

“The latter, I’m afraid.” His smile crinkles his eyes, making something in my chest catch and stutter. “The older collections were enchanted during less... diplomatic times.”

He steps closer. Light catches his irises, turning them from brown to molten gold. My body leans toward him—a half-inch betrayal—before I catch myself. I can taste his magic now—honey and sunlight and summer rain on warm earth.

“May I?” He gestures toward the retreating books.

I step aside. He murmurs something that doesn’t sound like any court language I’ve heard—something older, earthier. The sound vibrates through my bones, speaking directly to something in my chest that unclenches with each syllable.

The books respond immediately, settling like scolded pets. One volume actually floats forward, presenting itself with what I can only call eagerness, pages fluttering with purring sounds.

“They respond to intent as much as language,” he explains, voice low enough that I lean closer. “The library protects knowledge from those who might misuse it. Certain texts can sense... desperation.”

“I wasn’t aware research had an emotional signature,” I say, forcing one eyebrow up. “Should I be concerned about my academic aura?”

“Everything has an emotional signature in the Fae realm,” he counters, voice dropping to a register that vibrates in my bones. “Especially things done with purpose.”

“What were you looking for, specifically?” Finnian asks, gaze dropping to my concealed arm before meeting my eyes.

The moment pulls taut between us.

Shit. He’s noticed something. How much?

“Court structures and traditions,” I reply. The half-truth slides out smooth enough, but attempting fuller deception makes my throat constrict slightly. “My students fight differentlybased on background. Understanding their cultural contexts helps me teach more effectively.”

“A commendable approach.” He retrieves books from shelves I hadn’t noticed. “These provide a foundation on the major courts. Though if it’s combat traditions you’re interested in...”

He pauses, head tilting as if listening to something beyond my hearing. With a quick glance toward Tadhg, his hand settles gently against the small of my back, guiding me deeper into the stacks. The warmth of his touch spreads through the thin fabric of my shirt as the shelves rearrange themselves around us, creating a path that wasn’t there before.

“The library sometimes... cooperates with certain researchers,” he explains, close enough that I feel his body heat. “I’ve spent enough time here that we’ve developed an understanding.”

“You’ve tamed it?” I ask with amusement, ignoring how my body responds to his nearness—pulse kicking hard, heat blooming beneath my skin.

His laugh catches me off guard—genuine, transforming his features into something younger, brighter. Something hungry unfurls in my chest.

“No one tames the library. We merely... negotiate temporary alliances.”

“I see. And what exactly are you offering in exchange for safe passage, Professor?” I arch an eyebrow. “Because I should warn you—I drive a hard bargain.”

His hand stills against my back, thumb tracing the smallest circle through my shirt. “Safe passage,” he says quietly, amber eyes holding mine. “Trust. Perhaps...” His voice drops. “Something worth bargaining for.”

“And if I refuse your terms?” The words come out breathier than intended. “Because I should mention—I have a talent for making negotiations... complicated.”

“Then I suppose,” his voice becomes thoughtful, vulnerable, “I’ll have to convince you that some complications are worth the risk.”

The words send heat spiraling through me despite the cool library air. We’re standing too close now, his scent—bergamot and old books and something indefinably warm—filling my senses.