Come Over

The library is quiet—almost too quiet, like the world's been paused and everyone else forgot to press play.

I tuck myself at the desk farthest from the entrance, half-concealed by a dusty shelf that smells faintly of paper and old air conditioning. Felix's jacket drapes over me like armor, its scent a faded mix of wind, motor oil, and some rogue cologne that's embedded into the lining. My oversized pajama tee hangs off one shoulder, loose and wrinkled, with the hem bunched into the waistband of the cutbray jeans I shoved on earlier in a panic. The pen Elliot stabbed into my bun still wobbles every time I move, the weight of it tipping my balance. It's chaotic, but I don't care.