Tristan isn't really sure what he's doing here.

Or, at least, that's what he keeps telling himself.

In fact, he's in so much denial, that if someone asked him why he is at the library, and how he got here, he'd have to admit to believing in some sort of magic. Because he definitely didn't drive here, and he definitely doesn't want to go in. And, above all, he is certain that all of these coincidences have nothing to do with the possibility of seeing a mousy haired, bespectacled, ugly sweater wearing librarian.

Because that would be ridiculous.

But his heart is beating a little irregularly in his chest and his palms are slightly clammy.

He decides that standing, loitering, outside a public library is probably more ridiculous than going in, so he pushes the door open and goes inside before he can torture himself over it any longer.

His eyes immediately hone in on the desks, and he can feel his entire body sink in disappointment. Again, while he isn't willing to admit he's looking for anyone, it would have been nice to see someone.

The library is seemingly deserted.

Not surprising as it's another Friday night, but there has to be someone here?

He frowns to himself, moving towards the back row of books. It's where he had found the classics and, while his mission has been fruitless (finally having to admit that, perhaps, he might have come to see his stranger) he might as well check out another book.

Pride and Prejudice had pleasantly surprised him.

It's been a long time since he's felt anything like pleasant surprise, and he realises that he's hungry for more. He wants to get completely lost in another world, so different from his own, before he completely wakes up to his own reality again.

He stops suddenly, spying someone in the aisle.

If he felt ridiculous outside the library, he feels an outright clown now as he stumbles backward, hiding behind a pillar. He peeks out, his heart hammering in his chest, and spots his stranger immediately.

She's wearing a pale green knitted cardigan today, which he actually quite likes, and is stacking books back on to the shelf. She's reorganising them as she goes, shuffling titles until they sit alphabetically, according to the author's surname.

She looks content and he realises that she's humming gently under her breath. He spots the wire of her earphones and smiles as she bops along to whatever she's listening to.

It's endearing.

She slides the last book into place before turning and moving away, pushing a little book trolley as she goes, completely oblivious to her surroundings.

Once he's sure she's gone, he moves into the aisle, perusing the titles on the shelf. He runs his fingers along the spines of each of them, with a strange satisfaction in knowing that her fingers had danced along them just a few seconds prior.

He draws out Jane Eyre, a little daunted by the size of it.

He had read Wuthering Heights in school and had hated every second of it. From one unlikable character to the next, he had found the entire experience insufferable. He peers at the name on the spine, Charlotte Brontë, and hopes that her work doesn't follow in her sister's footsteps.

It would be such a shame to have to write off the Brontë sisters.

He scans the first chapter and when he finds himself sufficiently hooked, he marks the page with his library card and closes the book quietly with a satisfied smile.

There's hope for the Brontë's yet.

He moves towards the checkout desks and hesitates, biting his lip.

They've never spoken before, him and his stranger, and he wonders if this will change things forever? There's something about their Saturdays that feels sacred, something that he doesn't want to lose or change.

But he also can't shake her from his mind.

And if he's being truthful, she has already rocked him to his core, has already changed everything. The way she had reached out to him, when he had felt so far from everyone. The feel of her hand, so soft against his own. The way she seems to understand him in no words at all. He can't stop thinking about it.

She has changed his life in the most profound way, without even trying.

That day had been the worst in a long time for Tristan. He didn't know how he'd make it through. It had still been hard, but she had made it better. Better in a way Tristan hadn't known possible.

He steps forwards, closer and closer, still unsure.

She sees his approach from the corner of her eye, her hand tugging out her earphone as the other marks the page in her book.

"Good evening."

The words are soft and friendly, out of her mouth before she's even looked up at him.

That's probably why she said it, because as soon as she looks at him, her mouth snaps shut and her eyes grow wide.

He's glad she's broken their silence, albeit unwittingly, because he wasn't sure how to.

"Good evening."

His voice is soft too, a little huskier than he'd like. Tristan doesn't talk all that much anymore, he doesn't really have a lot to say.

Right now he has a lot he wants to say. Like asking where she finds such horrific jumpers, and why her glasses always seem to slip down her nose, and how she's come to mean so much to him without ever saying a word.

Instead, he slides the book across the desk and she seems to snap out of her reverie at the sight of it.

She keeps her eyes firmly on her hands, but the scanner shakes as she scans his library card, and again as she stamps the date into the front of the book. Her head is ducked down, as though she hopes he might not recognise her.

There's not a chance of that.

As she slides it back to him, her eyes flick upward hesitantly and he makes an effort to smile. It's not his real smile, but it's something.

"Thank you."

He's hoping that she gets the message. He's hoping that she hears his gratitude, and how much deeper it runs. He hopes that she understands all that he's thanking her for.

Her cheeks turn a light shade of pink, but she maintains his eye contact.

"Any time."