An empty chair. A sacred vow. An unbreakable bond.
You weren't supposed to be here.
It started with a wrong turn—a whim, really. A side street you didn't remember passing before, a storefront too narrow to notice unless you were looking for something else entirely. The brass sign above the door simply read:
"Books."
And something inside you whispered: Go in.
The air shifts the second you step inside—cool and still, scented faintly of old paper, dust, and clove. Not a soul behind the counter, just row after row of tall, sleepy shelves, sagging under the weight of forgotten stories.
You find the staircase by accident.
Or maybe it finds you.
Hidden behind a curtain of hanging maps, a spiral staircase coils downward, its iron rail cool beneath your fingertips as you descend into something deeper. Older.
The hum of the city vanishes behind you.
And then—you're there.
A subterranean library.
Dimly lit.
Sacred.
Lamps hang low from thick beams. Velvet armchairs cluster near crooked tables stacked with hardcovers and notebooks that look handwritten. You feel the silence press against your chest—not heavy.
Reverent.
You glide, barefoot in your sandals, fingers brushing spines without reading titles.
And then...
You feel it.
A gaze. Not cold, not invasive.
Steady.
Patient.
Like someone had been waiting.
He's seated at the far end, half-illuminated by a golden bulb, sleeves rolled, a book open in his lap but forgotten.
Not reading. Not anymore.
Just watching.
You try not to look directly at him.
You fail.
He's handsome, in that quiet-danger sort of way—
Controlled. Self-assured.
Too composed to be anyone ordinary.
And when you pass the narrow aisle beside him, your shoulder barely a whisper from the edge of his chair—
He speaks.
"Careful. The rare books don't like to be touched without permission."
His voice is low. Warm.
A little cruel, if only for the fun of it.
You stop.
Turn slowly.
"Maybe I don't like being told what to do."
There's a beat.
A shift.
Then he closes the book without looking down.
And says—
"Then we might have a problem."
You blink.
"Or a solution," you counter, heat curling under your tongue.
He studies you like he's already chosen you.
Like this is the part where he waits to see if you'll choose him back.
"You don't belong here," he says at last.
You raise your chin. "Neither do you."
He smiles.
Not wide. Not kind.
The kind of smile that knows.
"What's your name?"
You give it.
And he nods, slow.
Deliberate.
"Mine's Chan. But if you come back tomorrow..."
"You'll call me something else."
You should leave.
You should.
But instead you say, "What if I don't come back?"
His gaze darkens, just a little.
"You will."
And damn him—
You already know he's right
You don't go back the next day.
You think about it, of course—
More than you'd like to admit.
The way he said your name.
The promise in his voice, heavy and velvet-soft.
The suggestion that he'd already decided who you were going to be.
You bristle at that.
Because who the hell is he?
And why does your chest ache every time you think of his gaze?
So you stay away.
For a day. Then two.
Then five.
You tell yourself it meant nothing.
That he's probably always there, whispering strange lines to any woman who wanders down those stairs.
But there's a part of you—deep in your gut—that knows better.
Because men don't look at women like that.
Not unless they're absolutely certain they can undo them.
And you?
You're still trying to convince yourself you're not the kind that wants to be undone.
You run into him again by accident.
This time, it's a museum.
Not a flashy, modern one. No—an old art hall, half-empty in the middle of the week. You came for the quiet. For the sculpture exhibit. For the way still things can sometimes make you feel like you're breathing deeper.
You turn the corner into one of the side wings—
And he's there.
Black button-up. Sleeves rolled again.
Hands clasped behind his back as he stares up at a marble piece you can't even look at, because all your focus narrows to him.
His profile.
The line of his jaw.
The heat that blooms low in your belly before your mind can form a single sentence.
He doesn't turn. Doesn't speak.
But as you step closer, slow and deliberate—
His voice reaches you, without needing to look.
"I told you you'd come back."
You swallow hard.
"This isn't the library."
A pause.
Then—
"You remembered it."
You hate that you did.
You come to stand beside him, arms crossed, facing the sculpture but not really seeing it.
"Are you stalking me?"
"No,"he says easily. "I just make a habit of being where I need to be."
"And where's that?"
"Wherever you are."
Silence stretches.
Not awkward. Not uncomfortable.
Taut.
Thick with things unsaid.
You glance at him—
And this time, he's already watching.
"You haven't earned the right to look at me like that," you say, but your voice betrays you. It's too soft. Too breathless.
He steps closer. Just enough for the air to shift.
"No," he murmurs. "But you haven't told me to stop."
And that's the moment, isn't it?
When you realize:
You won't.