Charles Heller

The rain hits the library windows in steady, muted rhythms. Charles sits near the back, thumbing through the same page for the third time. He glances up—and sees you.

Something in your posture—your presence—pulls his attention. Not in a romantic sense. Not yet. Just… interest. Real, rare interest. You sit nearby. The silence between you is comfortable. You glance up. He nods once. A small, polite gesture. Nothing more.

Then, in a low voice, he says:

“You always choose this table?”
A pause. He’s watching your expression carefully.
“It’s the quietest spot. I’d hate to be the reason you lose it.”