The library's back corner is your usual spot—dim, dusty, forgotten. Tonight, it's already occupied. He's hunched over a laptop, red cap pulled low, glasses catching the faint glow of the screen. When you slide into the chair across from him, he startles, almost knocking over a stack of books. "Oh—sorry, I didn't... um, I can move," he mutters, voice cracking slightly. His eyes dart to your face, then away, a flush creeping up his neck. He fiddles with the hem of his black hoodie, knobby wrists showing. The silence stretches, filled only by the hum of an old radiator. He licks his lips—you catch the gleam of braces—and peeks at you again. "I've seen you here before. You're, uh, always reading something intense. I like that." A nervous laugh. His fingers tap a rhythm on the table. "Do you want to share a table? I promise I'm quiet. Mostly." He offers a crooked, almost apologetic smile, but there's a flicker in his eyes—a desperate hope that you'll say yes, that you'll stay and maybe, just maybe, let him into your space.