NOT MINE

The worst place to fall from a ladder is a construction site.

The second worst place is the college library, especially when the most arrogant man in the city is standing underneath it.

And unfortunately for me, that man is Ilan Vance.

I'm shaking right now-halfway up a rolling ladder, wearing completely irresponsible heels and holding two books that weigh more than my dignity.

Every step feels like a negotiation with gravity.

When I finally reach the top shelf, I steady myself, lungs tight, breath shallow. Just as I'm about to slide the books into place, a voice cuts through the quiet from the front desk.

"This fucking place is empty."

A male voice. And kinda rude one.

I can't see him. I'm hidden behind towering rows of books, stacked like silent sentinels, but the sound of him carries. Low. Impatient.

"I'll be right there," I call back. "Just give me a minute."

I exhale, annoyed. I just hyped myself up to climb this thing, and I refuse to do it all over again. At the very least, these two books are going where they belong.

With protesting muscles, I lift them higher and slide them onto the shelf, the spines thudding softly into place.

Halfway down, I pause, grab two more books from the cart, and grunt under their weight as I start climbing again.

Another round.

Then one more book.

Half done.

Bravo, Dalia.

Footsteps echo through the aisle-measured, confident. Hard, expensive soles striking marble. I feel them before I see anything, a quiet awareness settling at the base of my spine.

Then his voice again, closer this time.

"Your minute's up," angry, sharp. "Or are you gonna make me wait forever?"

Annoyed. Definitely annoyed.

"Sorry," I say, as I adjust all the books. "I'm coming down. These ladders are terrifying, you know. I almost don't want to come down. But I guess I can't live here forever."

I give the shelf one final steadying touch before starting my descent, suddenly very aware that I'm no longer alone.

"I'm not catching you if you fall," he says firmly.

I haven't even seen him yet, but the tone alone tells me he's too serious, too authoritative to be a student.

"You don't have to. It might be fun to just watch."

I start climbing down-slowly. My hands tremble slightly around the rails, every step calculated. It would suck to fall from this ladder now, even more with an arrogant man standing below to grunt at me.

When my foot finally reaches the last rung, relief floods through me.

Thank God. Last step.

I won't be embarrassed.

And then-

I trip.

On the last step. The one that's literally two inches from the floor.

My sandal slips.

My balance vanishes.

I tip backward, helpless, a small scream tearing out of my throat.

And suddenly, I'm not falling.

Strong hands catch me. One arm locks around my waist, firm. The other grips my wrist, steady, sure. In a heartbeat, I'm safe. Upright. Breathing.

Alive.

My breath stutters when I finally see his face.

Dark eyes, normal but intense. I feel like I could look at them forever.

Messy hair falls over his forehead, like he hasn't bothered taming it. His lips are parted, his breath uneven-mirroring my own.

Dressed entirely formal. White shirt. Tailored pants.

Handsome. Ridiculously so. And definitely not a student. Older.

"I hate clumsy women," he says, still holding me, his gaze slow, assessing, taking in every detail as if I'm something he hasn't decided what to do with yet.

I blow out a breath, trying to free my brown hair that's stuck to my lips. "Good thing nobody's asking you to fall in love with me."

His lips twitch. He keeps staring.

"Ilan?" a voice calls from somewhere behind him. A girl's voice.

He releases me instantly.

I steady myself, smoothing my clothes, pushing my hair back into place, while he turns and walks away without a single backward glance.

Like, I am suddenly so insignificant.

I follow a second later, leaving the cart of books right where it is.

"Hey, Adaline," I say to the girl waiting nearby.

Beautiful and blonde. Every guy's type.

She scrunches her nose, looking me up and down like I'm an inconvenience.

"Who are you?"

"I'm in your literature class," I reply. Then, softer, already giving up, "Never mind. What do you need?"

Of course, she doesn't remember me. And the way her eyes skim over me-my blue dress, which has ketchup stains from my McDonald's lunch(worth it) -I know she won't bother trying now.

"I need these." She thrusts a list into my hand. "And I need to look through them first. Check if they actually have what I need before I rent them."

I scan the list.

Oh.

She's just starting last week's assignment. The one due tomorrow.

I smile to myself. Mine is already finished, polished, and resting neatly behind my desk.

I turn toward the shelves, nearly tripping over one of the wooden chairs on the way, and pull each book from its place. I stack them on a nearby table and gesture for her to follow.

The guy comes with her.

He rolls up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, slow and deliberate, exposing his forearms before sliding his hands into his pockets. The movement feels unnecessarily distracting, like he knows exactly what he's doing. They sit side-by-side, claiming the space.

"Privacy?" Adaline says, her expression pinched again.

"Sure," I reply lightly, already scooting away.

Back at my desk, I return to this week's assignment. I twirl my pen between my fingers, focused. I pick up my half-empty Red Bull, take a sip, and underline a sentence-

A chair creaks.

My head snaps up.

Him.

He leans back in his chair, tilting it just enough to slip out from behind her, his gaze landing on me, open, unapologetic, lingering far too long to be accidental.

I freeze.

He doesn't even try to hide it. Just looks.

Openly showing me that he wants to slide his eyes over me.

"Prick," I mutter under my breath. His girlfriend-probably-is sitting right there.

I drop my gaze, place the can down-

And accidentally, knock it over.

Liquid spills across my notes, soaking the pages, smearing ink, ruining everything.

"No," I almost yell, scrambling to save them. The paper is already ruined. Ink bleeding. Words dissolving.

"Damn it."

Perfect.

I'll have to manage without these now.

When I look up again, both of them are standing at my desk.

"I'll take all the books," Adaline orders, like we're at a café.

I nod, gather the stack, and hand them over along with the library slip.

She doesn't thank me. Not even a glance. She turns and walks away, heels clicking sharply against the floor, her man following close behind.

I watch them go, pouting. A simple thank you wouldn't have killed her.

Then-

His head turns, casual, almost lazily over his shoulder, and his eyes find mine again.

Hands still in his pockets. Expression unreadable.

What is with this constant need to look at me for no sane reason???

But for some reason, I don't look away.

It lasts only a few seconds.

And then he's gone.