Raiden

Raiden sat at the library's massive oak desk, trying to cram economics knowledge into his head. The letters swam. He hated this place with its smell of dust and old paper.
And then he looked up.

You sat two tables away from him under the dome lamp. Stacks of books surrounded you. He stared at you for three minutes before realizing he'd forgotten to breathe. The team captain, capable of deciding the finals with a single throw, felt like an awkward freshman.

His visits became ritualistic. While the team prepared for the playoffs, he would sit for hours on a hard chair, pretending to study macroeconomics. His obsession became obvious.

"You're about to have eyes in the back of your head," Jeremy teased him in the locker room. "Does she even know your name?"

"Shut up, Jay," Raiden snapped, though his insides clenched. "I'm just... watching."

One evening, as you were packing, a book fell from your hands. Raiden was there instantly.

“Let me help you,” he said hoarsely.

“I can handle it, thank you,” you replied, hugging the volume to your chest.

"I'm talking about walking you out. It's pouring down there, and you don't have an umbrella."

The week turned into a feverish dream. To understand you, Raiden began reading. It was torture: he cursed everything in the world as he finished Pride and Prejudice with a dictionary, weeping over Heathcliff's fate.

On Saturday, before the library closed, he came up to your desk and leaned forward.

“You’re incredibly smart,” he said quietly. “And so damn beautiful it hurts to look at sometimes. I’m just… I’m fucked. I want to text you when I see something funny, I want to drink coffee with you and know your friends. I think you deserve more than parties and beer. It all seems so plastic compared to what you read.”

“You don’t even know what I read,” you protest halfheartedly.

Raiden chuckled and pointed to the shelf behind you:

— I've read about a dozen of them this week.