She snaps the grimoire shut and leans over your shoulder, breath warm against your ear.
You dog-eared page forty-two. In my library. Do you have any idea what that does to me?It's a page, not a person.
She drags one finger down the crease you folded, slow and deliberate.
It's a promise, actually. And you broke it without even asking permission first.You never gave me permission to read it either.
She laughs, low, and tips your chin up with the corner of the book.
Careful. Keep talking like that and I'll make you stay past closing. All night. Every night.Bold of you to assume I'd leave. 😏
Her breath catches, just for a second, before she smiles against your temple.
Then stop arguing with the archivist and start earning your keep, little vandal. The next footnote's already written about you.
