Who are you

There are people who occupy space in silence. They do not need to speak to be noticed; their shadow is enough.

He is like that.

When he entered the room, the air suddenly grew heavier, as if the storm brewing outside had slipped indoors along with him. He is beautiful—with that kind of beauty that forces you to look back, even when your instinct screams at you to look away.

He has dark, straight, layered hair, shaved closer as it nears the nape of his neck. A thick fringe on the right partially veils his gaze; his hair, tousled by the wind, somehow maintains an incredibly neat composure. It is so beautiful, so glossy and magnetic, that it immediately makes you want to look at it, to stretch out your fingers and run your hands through it to test its softness.

His face has hard, sharp features, as if sculpted from stone: neat black eyebrows, pronounced cheekbones, and thin lips, but not too thin. It betrays a strength that has nothing to do with the gym. It is the posture of someone accustomed to defending himself. Or attacking.

But it was his eyes that froze me.

Black. So deep they seemed to absorb the light in the room instead of reflecting it. And yet, for a millisecond, as he turned toward me, I thought I caught a different shade inside them. A golden reflection, almost amber—liquid and wild. As if behind that apparent calm lay a storm ready to tear through its chains.

My heart skipped a beat. It wasn't fear—or perhaps it was, but the kind that makes you feel damn alive.

When he looked at me, I felt a cold shiver start at the base of my neck and cascade down my spine. It was a fleeting moment. He clenched his fists inside his jacket pockets, his knuckles turning abruptly white, and averted his gaze with an almost painful rigidity.

As if looking at me cost him an enormous effort. As if he were hiding something I cannot, or must not, understand just yet.

The book I am searching for is right there, trapped on the highest shelf, a dark leather spine that seems to mock my height. I stretch onto the tips of my toes, extending my arms to their absolute limit. I manage to brush it with my fingertips, just enough to nudge it forward, but I lose my grip.

The volume, heavy and massive, slips from the ledge and is about to fall straight on top of me.

Instinctively, I close my eyes, bracing for the impact, but the light around me vanishes all at once. An immense, swift shadow projects over mine. I feel a sudden heat, dense and unexpected, as a tense, iron arm snaps above my head, intercepting the book mid-air a millisecond before it can strike me.

I remain motionless, my breath caught in my throat, pinned between the wood of the bookshelf and the invisible barrier of his body. I can smell him: he scents of rain, damp earth, and something wild, almost electric.

He still holds the book pressed against the shelf, gently trapping me within the small space between his arms. He lowers his face slightly toward mine and, in a very soft, warm, and reassuring voice, whispers:

"Be careful, it could hurt you."

In that moment, he looks up and hands me the volume, stepping just a single pace back to let me breathe.

His first gaze is a jolt. Penetrating. Sharp. I have the absurd, almost terrifying feeling that he is reading directly inside me, flipping through my secrets as if the pages of my mind had suddenly turned to glass. In the silence of the library, I can almost hear the rustle of his own thoughts—a low, tense sound, like branches snapping under the weight of a secret too great to bear.

Our close proximity forces me to notice every detail of what he is wearing. He has an impeccable style, a charisma and magnetism reflected in his clothes; it is that dark elegance seemingly tailored to wrap around his mysterious and confident aura.

He wears a long, heavy black leather coat that reaches almost to his ankles, left open at the front. The collar of the coat is split into five sharp, decisive points, framing his profile with a cutting refinement. The leather of the coat has that matte, weathered reflection, and it moves with him, emitting an almost imperceptible rustle.

Beneath the coat, he wears a black sweater that, like it or not, offers a glimpse of a more than statuesque physique: broad shoulders, defined pectorals, and the muscular line of his abdomen. Every inch of that garment highlights an impressive, primal physical power, while dark trousers and black boots complete his tall, imposing figure.

I should look away. Instinct commands me to break such an intimate eye contact, yet my eyes refuse to obey.

He lowers his gaze almost instantly, staring at the wooden floor as if afraid of what his eyes might reveal to me. But it is a magnetic, almost magical and continuous game: I lower my eyes to him, studying his strong shoulders, the hard profile of his jaw, and a second later he raises his again, locking with mine. We lower and raise our gazes continuously, in a silent ballet made of hesitation and pure attraction.

There is something inevitable about all of this. I feel a shiver I cannot explain, a deep and irrational certainty that this moment was already written. As if we were two souls destined to collide, forever.

My eyes remain trapped in his, unable to escape that powerful, charismatic magnetism. I feel paralyzed, yet strangely safe.

"Thank you," I manage to whisper.

My voice comes out frail, thin, a breath that barely breaks the silence surrounding us. Immediately after, I lower my gaze again, feeling a flush of heat rise to my cheeks. I feel embarrassed. Embarrassed by how my eyes keep searching for him.

He moves his hand, offering me the volume. I stretch out my fingers to grasp it, but in that same instant, his large hand and long fingers touch mine.

The contact lasts a millisecond, but the effect is devastating. A powerful tremor runs through me, a hot, electric shock. I instantly snap my gaze back up, moved by an involuntary reflex, and stare straight into his eyes.

We remain like this, motionless, staring intensely at each other. In this precise moment, the air around us seems to vibrate. It is as if our souls have begun to play in unison. There is something strange lingering in this library. Everything appears magical, predestined, governed by a force that is not yet clear to me. It is an invisible bond, something deep that seems kissed by the secrets of the moon, an ancestral truth that must still remain hidden.

He does not flinch. He remains wrapped in a monumental tranquility, displaying a perfect self-control that increases his magnetism exponentially. I, on the contrary, am overwhelmed by emotions and thoughts that come to life in that instant... Uncontrollable. I always thought I was a strong, confident, quiet girl. Yet now, in front of him, I find myself completely naked. Defenseless. Without shields. Without armor. I am his prey.

I desperately try to compose myself, to push aside the deafening rustle of my thoughts and ignore those rebellious shivers that continue to travel everywhere.

"Do you come to the library often?" I ask, keeping my deep gaze fixed on his eyes. "I've never seen you here before."

I have always been considered a beautiful girl, always courted. Yet, no one has ever had this effect on me. I didn't think a boy so damn intriguing could trigger such an attraction, mixed with an ever-growing curiosity.

Following my words, a moment of silence falls between us. An endless quiet expands around us, so dense that I can hear the accelerated beating of my own heart in my chest. He stares at me, motionless, studying every single millimeter of my expression.

Then, breaking that suspended silence, he asks me in a deep voice:

"I moved here recently, I love reading... What is your name?"

I remain stranded in his gaze for a second, almost spellbound. I feel the shivers that continue to travel everywhere beneath my skin. With a thread of a voice, almost whispering, I reply:

"Lora. And yours?" I said, my voice growing fainter and fainter.

He does not answer right away. The sound of my name elicits a subtle hint of a smile from him. What a strange sensation: the feeling of someone who already knows my name. A curiosity mixed with agitation assails me.

He takes a step forward, erasing the space that separates us. Resting his hand against the bookshelf, I find myself completely dominated by that gaze. Before I can even draw a breath, he leans toward me, bringing his lips close to my ear. His warmth engulfs me.

From this close, my gaze inevitably falls upon his lips. Slightly full, they seem to be drawn with a geometric precision that lends his face a sharp, haughty profile. Yet, just as he approaches me, my eyes rest on his jaw, which contracts visibly. He clenches his teeth hard, locking his mouth with determination. In that precise instant, his lips tighten into an even more strained, hard line, revealing a barely contained tension. It seems as though he is fighting against something, a massive effort to maintain control and not betray his thoughts.

"My name is Aaron," he whispers in a low, soft voice that contrasts with that rigidity.

He has a way of speaking that is so firm, yet equally gentle. A deep voice that could inspire awe, but to me, it feels warm, secure, enveloping—so much so that his words almost seem to take physical shape. I feel them. I feel them sliding over my skin until I claim them as mine, like a shirt worn to protect myself from the cold. They wrap around me completely.

Then he exhales slowly, and the warmth of his breath caresses my neck as he adds:

"Your scent... it is sweet, good. It smells of you."

He takes a tiny pause, letting the intensity of those words hang suspended in the air, then concludes in an even lower, firmer tone:

"I hope to see you soon, Lora."

The warmth of his breath caresses my neck one last time as he pulls away. He turns and sets off down the aisle of bookshelves, disappearing into the shadows of the books with the same silent swiftness with which he had appeared.

I am left there alone, with the book clutched to my chest, the feeling of those words still stitched onto me, and my heart pounding wildly.