Leo had been "studying" for three hours, which was really just a cover for watching Ally navigate the stacks. She didn’t just walk; she moved with a quiet, frantic energy, her fingers trailing over book spines as if she were searching for a secret door. She was a journalism major with a reputation for asking questions that made professors sweat and a laugh that sounded like wind chimes in a gale. He was hopelessly, quietly in love with her.

"You’ve been on page forty-two since I got here," a voice whispered.

The playfulness vanished. The silence of the archives pressed in on them. Leo could feel his heart hammering against his ribs. "Ally," he breathed.

As the sun began to bleed through the high, stained-glass windows, they walked out into the morning air—exhausted, ink-smudged, and finally, undeniably, together.