Chapter 3 — Library Glances

Jorge

The library smelled like paper and dust, with a faint tang of coffee that had probably been forgotten in some travel mug weeks ago. It wasn’t my usual hiding spot—who even willingly came here? But after the cafeteria and the suffocating weight of Braden’s grip still lingering on my thigh, I needed somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one would think to look. Somewhere I could pretend to breathe.

The low murmur of hushed voices greeted me as I pushed through the heavy doors, paired with the occasional rustle of pages and the faint clacking of a keyboard. It wasn’t total silence, not really, but it was enough. Enough to drown out the phantom drumbeat of Braden’s fingers on the table, the tension etched into every glance he threw my way, and the steady, unshakable image of Clay Anderson’s gaze cutting straight through me.

I wandered between shelves of books no one ever touched, my sneakers squeaking faintly on the polished tile. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed like a mosquito you couldn’t quite swat, but the further back I went, the darker and quieter it got. Long stretches of golden sunlight slanted through the high windows, pooling across the carpet in lazy rectangles. It felt like another world back here—removed, untouchable. A momentary truce.

I picked a seat near the farthest corner, dropping my bag onto the floor with a soft thud and sinking into the cracked leather chair. My phone buzzed in my pocket, but I ignored it. Braden. Probably. Or maybe Nick, cracking some joke I didn’t have the energy to laugh at. Either way, I couldn’t deal with it right now.

I rubbed at my temples, willing the tightness in my chest to ease. Braden’s voice still echoed in my head, sharp-edged and teasing, and then there was Alex’s quiet steadiness as she slid the fries toward me. The bracelet on her wrist had caught the light, the colorful threads woven together so neatly it almost didn’t seem real. Just like her—calm, steady, unshakable. A constant, even when everything else felt like chaos.

And Clay.

My fingers stilled against my temple, a new tension unfurling in my gut. His eyes, locked with mine across the cafeteria, had felt like a challenge. No, not a challenge—an intrusion. Like he wasn’t just looking at me, but through me. And the worst part? I hadn’t hated it. There was something in that gaze that felt steady, grounding, but it left a crack in my carefully polished armor, one Braden would have sensed if I hadn’t looked away fast enough.

What was wrong with me? Just a glance, I told myself. Just a stupid, meaningless glance.

I leaned back in the chair, letting my head tip against the worn leather. For a second, I let the moment stretch, the faint whispers of the library filling the space around me. But then a sound broke through it—a soft scratch, rhythmic and insistent, like pencil on paper.

I opened my eyes. And there he was.

Clay Anderson.

Of course.

He was sitting by the window, hunched over a notebook, the sunlight catching the tousled edges of his sandy blond hair, turning it gold. His pencil moved steadily across the page, each line deliberate. Precise. He looked calm, like he belonged here, like the whole world could stop turning and he’d still sit there, unbothered, sketching whatever it was he was sketching.

I hated him for it. And yet, somehow, I couldn’t look away.

And then, like he could feel the weight of my stare, his head lifted. Our eyes met, and for the second time that day, my stomach did something stupid and traitorous. His gaze was steady—unhurried, unflinching. Like he’d caught me mid-act, but wasn’t in any hurry to call me out on it. His expression didn’t shift, not really, but there was something in the tilt of his head. Calculating. Curious. Like he was looking at a puzzle he’d already figured out.

Heat crept up the back of my neck, and I wrenched my gaze away, focusing on my scuffed sneakers like they held the secrets of the universe. The skin on my palms felt too tight, like the weight of his attention had stretched it too thin.

Footsteps shuffled closer—soft, deliberate. My chest tightened.

“Davidson,” Clay said, his voice quiet but clear. It carried, somehow, like it was meant for me and only me. “Hiding out?”

I forced a smirk, letting it settle over my unease like armor. “Maybe I just like the smell of old paper and bad decisions,” I said, the words coming out sharper than I intended. “What’s your excuse?”

His lips tugged upward, just slightly, in a way that could’ve been amusement—or condescension. “Some of us actually come here to get things done.”

“Wow,” I said, shaking my head. “Look at you. Breaking stereotypes.”

He shrugged, pulling out the chair across from me and sitting down without waiting for an invitation. His notebook landed on the table with a soft thud, the pages fraying slightly at the edges. “Didn’t think this was your scene,” he said, resting his arms on the table like he had all the time in the world. “Too quiet for the great Jorge Davidson?”

“Yeah, well.” I leaned back, crossing my arms. “Maybe I needed a break from the fans. Not everyone can handle this much charm in one day.”

“You’re definitely something.” His eyes flickered over me—not unkind, but sharp, like he was cataloging details. “You seem... off.”

The words hit like a dart, and I flinched before I could stop myself. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You tell me.” His tone was calm, measured, but there was something searching in it. Like he was trying to dig under my skin in the gentlest way possible. “You okay?”

The question caught me off guard—too direct, too careful. My mouth opened, then closed again, the weight of all the wrong answers pressing against my chest. Before I could figure out what to say, my eyes landed on his notebook. Or, more specifically, the edge of a page poking out beneath his hand.

A sketch.

My chest tightened. I leaned forward instinctively, my eyes tracing the lines. The shape was unmistakable: my varsity jacket. The bold “C” patch on the chest, the curve of the collar, even the faint outline of the faded grass stains on the sleeves. The detail was sharp, almost uncomfortably so, like whoever drew it had been studying every inch of it.

“What’s that?” I asked, my voice slipping into something quieter. Controlled.

Clay’s jaw tightened, his hand shifting subtly to cover the drawing. But it was too late. The image was burned into my mind now, bright and unavoidable.

“Nothing,” he said, his voice clipped in a way that didn’t match his usual calm. His shoulders stiffened, and for the first time, I saw something in his expression that wasn’t control. It was fleeting, but there. Unease.

I raised an eyebrow, leaning back again. “Looks like more than nothing.”

His lips twitched—almost a smile, almost an evasion. “Just a doodle.”

“Right,” I said, my tone flat. “Because you strike me as the doodling type.”

He didn’t answer, just closed the notebook with a quiet snap and stood. “See you around, Davidson,” he said, his voice smooth again, unreadable. And before I could press him further, he was gone, disappearing between the shelves like he’d never been there.

I stared at the seat he’d left behind, my fingers drumming absently against the table. My head felt full and empty all at once, like something important had shifted, but I didn’t know what.

The jacket, the sketch, the memory of his steady gaze—they tangled together in my mind, pulling tighter and tighter until I couldn’t tell where one thought ended and the next began.

I leaned back, letting the sunlight catch on the tips of my shoes. My fingers brushed the edge of my pocket, where a faint, worn thread from Alex’s bracelet stuck out.

Maybe I should’ve stayed in the cafeteria.

Or maybe not.