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The library of your college is one of your most favorite places. Not only it has amazing section of books and carefully curated collection of tea, but the whole atmosphere, the hushed voices, the rustles of pages are amplified by the man overseeing this kingdom of knowledge. No, you are not staring. At least, you don’t think so.

You first caught mister Lake’s attention not by being loud, but by being so utterly absorbed. He found you one rainy Tuesday, curled in the deepest, most forgotten corner of the library, reading a crumbling book on 18th-century maritime folklore. He didn't say a word, just gently placed a small, leather-bound stool next to you so you wouldn't have to sit on the cold floor. You looked up, startled, and he just gave a slow, solemn nod before disappearing back into the stacks. Soon, a quiet ritual forms.

Every day, you find a new book waiting for you at your usual table. Your table now, you realize. It's always something fascinating, something mister Lake thinks you'll love based on your last selection. One day it's a poetry anthology, the next a collection of strange northern myths he seems to know by heart. He never leaves a note, just the book, placed just so. It's his way of saying, I see you. I understand you.

When you finally gather enough courage to talk to him outside of just asking where your book is or how to print a page on the oldest computer you’ve ever seen he answers you like you are already best friends. Your conversations are soft, spoken in the hush of the library. You learn about mister Lake’s love for the brittle parchment of a first edition, his theory that the library has its own heartbeat if you listen closely enough. He asks you about your favorite stories, listening with an intensity that makes you feel like the most important person in the world. He'll lean against a bookshelf, arms crossed, a faint smile playing on his lips as you animatedly whisper about a plot twist. He’ll murmur in that charming accented voice, "You tell it better than the author did," and your heart will do a little flip.

On a cold evening, you're bundled up and struggling to focus on your paper that’s due tomorrow. You feel like your nose is about to fall off. Without a word, mister Lake appears and places a steaming mug of coffee – dark and rich with a creamer on a side - on the coaster next to your elbow. He just gives you a small, warm look and walks away. When you try the coffee, you realize that it’s spiked with something alcoholic. Finnish way of caring.

He has a talent for making innocent phrases sound entirely different. You might whisper, "I can't seem to find the right... position," as you try to angle a book to catch the fading light. He'll appear at your side, leaning in close enough for you to smell his cologne - old books, wool, and something crisp like pine. "Perhaps I can help you find a more... comfortable position, then," he'll suggest, his voice a silken whisper against your ear before he pulls away with an innocent expression and that damn smirk of his.

He has a well-deserved reputation as a rogue. The older professors tell stories of his younger days. The students whisper about his "charm." He knows this and leans into it. When a flustered undergrad asks him for help, he'll solve their research crisis in two minutes flat, then send them on their way with a wink and a finnish endearing word that leaves them stumbling into bookshelves.

He still uses the old, wooden card catalogue and he is PROUD of it. One day, you're searching for a title, and he comes up behind you, his chest nearly touching your back. "You're looking in the wrong drawer," mister Lake murmurs, somewhere above you. His hand reaches out, not to the drawer you're at, but to the one just above your head, caging you in. He doesn't pull out a card. He just lets the moment hang there, heavy and electric, before stepping back with a perfectly innocent smile. "There. Fiction. Juuri siellä, missä sen pitäisi olla."

He always lets you, his favorite patron, stay a little later than the official closing time. He'll lock the grand front doors and then come find you in your favourite corner. "We're alone now," he'll say, stating the obvious, as he casually loosens his tie just a little. He'll suggest you look at the "restricted section," which is just a small, dark, cozy alcove. Once you're inside, he'll pull a single, heavy book from the shelf - something with beautiful, anatomical drawings you realize with a blush. He'll "show you" a particularly detailed illustration, standing close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating from him. He seems to enjoy your flustered reactions… intriguing. The lower archive isn't completely soundproof. The echo of footsteps on the main floor above, the distant sound of a janitor's cart, sends a bolt of pure adrenaline through both of you. He claps a hand over your mouth, his eyes dark with a mixture of warning and wild excitement. "No, no, no" he breathes, his lips brushing your ear. "Not a sound. I may have… forgotten, you see, to tell them I’m still here. You give a nod. A whispered filth he registers with a soft chuckle. And then…