Sunlight slanted through the high windows of the library. The building was old and grand, the ceilings arched with ornate plasterwork. Heavy wooden bookcases lined the walls and spilled further out into neatly organised mazes around the cavernous room. Tables occupied the central space, students sweating over textbooks as noise from the street outside drifted up through the open windows.

He was following her through the bookcases. She could feel him even though he kept his distance and every time she looked back over her shoulder, she couldn’t help the edge of anxiety that flickered in her stomach. She felt too hot even though the summer dress she wore was thin and sleeveless.

She scanned the bookcases, searching through authors to occasionally add a book to the stack she held under her arm.

He wasn't looking for books. She was aware of his constant presence and it irked her. He knew her. He always knew how to find her and she'd known he'd show up, but she'd come anyway, like she was halfway ready to speak to him. She was never ready.

He finally caught up in Fiction M where she was looking up to the top shelf and through all the Mc authors.

“Hey,” he said.

She pretended he didn't exist even though the mere sound of his voice sent an indecent thrill through her. McArthur. McCarthy. McEwan.

“Whatcha looking for?” he asked. He stepped closer, so close that it was impossible not to acknowledge him. She tried to feign nonchalance, flicking through a random book as she spoke.

“What do you want?”

He looked at her. She didn't look back. She closed the book and replaced it but he was still looking so she eventually turned to him.

“For god's sake.” Seeing him up close startled her more than she'd expected and she blinked. “What do you want?”

He didn't look away. His eyes were golden bronze like perpetual summer.

“You,” he said and he held her eyes. “Always.”

“God.” She had to look away.

She wanted to hate him but he thrilled her beyond measure. He always made her feel wanted and there was a comfort in it, an easy excitement she couldn't live without.

“You really screwed up,” she said finally.

He didn't deny it. He sighed very deeply.

“I'm sorry,” he said. He watched her reach for a book on the very top shelf and he didn't offer to help, even though he could have easily got it for her. He just watched as she reached for it, her dress riding up dangerously high before she finally tugged the hardback free.

“You look nice,” he said, and then, “God, you look beautiful. I fucking miss you.”

She looked up at him, wondering if it were true. She couldn't imagine him missing her like she'd missed him - feeling empty the way she did when he wasn't around. Her mood would dim, everything felt pointless, and she knew it wasn’t healthy and yet it wasn't something she could control. He affected her in ways no one else ever had.

She set her books down and turned to face him in the narrow space between bookcases.

“Say something,” he urged. “Please.”

She opened her mouth and his fingers came out, touching her face like he couldn't help himself. She leaned into his hand, too far gone to help herself.

“I hate when you're not around,” she said eventually.

He moved closer to her, searching her face for meaning, understanding, permission. She let him read her without even knowing what she was saying.

The sun was hitting her through the window, angling across her face and he leaned in. She let him kiss her, his mouth firm and insistent. His hand fit into the dip of her waist and he stepped closer still, pushing her against the bookcase. His tongue moved, trying to insinuate its way beyond her lips. The hand at her waist dug in harder, his knee pushing her legs apart. She opened her mouth and heard approval in his throat before his tongue pushed against hers, exploring hungrily.

“I think of you,” he groaned, pulling back. “Always.”

She couldn't speak. She kissed him again, tongue reaching for his, her body surrendering against him. He smelled like he always had, soap and coffee and the edge of sweat and she wanted to breathe him in forever.

“You remember?” He was kissing her neck, his hand tugging her ponytail back to give his mouth access to the hollow of her throat. “The last time? The way we fucked? I think about it all the fucking time.”

She could remember. It made her entire body flush with heat, her stomach clenching at the memory of his hard cock driving relentlessly into her. She swallowed hard and he kissed her harder, his free hand going down to drag up the skirt of her dress.

She caught his wrist and he paused but she didn't push him away. They watched each other silently. His hand moved up under her dress and touched her leg. Her breath caught in her throat. Higher. He touched the edge of her underwear. Her fingers were loose around his wrist.

“Let me,” he growled.

She didn't stop him. His fingers went beneath the cotton of her underwear and touched her. She was wet against his fingertips and he groaned, his body pushing hard against hers. The edges of the bookcase dug into her back. Her hips were tilted towards him. His finger eased inside her, his mouth on hers as she moaned.

“Just let me,” he said. His thumb pressed hard on her clit, his finger curling deep inside her. It felt like he knew everything she was, inside and out. He read her, felt the way she shifted and tensed and he followed it, touching her harder, his hand working her more urgently until she gasped and came, shuddering and clenching around his fingers until everything made helpless, beautiful sense again.