#library romance

The library smelt like old paper and lemony cleaning spray, and you were seriously questioning your life choices. 

You could have been anywhere else on a Friday afternoon - at the diner, driving around with friends, even stuck at home doing laundry - but no.

Here you were.

Volunteering.

When Mrs. Collins had mentioned Eddie Munson was hanging by a thread in English Lit, something in you had tightened. He was funny, he was smart when he actually tried, and even if he liked to pretend otherwise, you knew he cared.

He just… needed someone in his corner.

And okay, maybe you had been carrying a low-key, slow-burning crush on him since forever, but that wasn’t the point. 

(Not the main point.)

You were here to help.

Totally professional. Totally academic. Totally not because you wanted an excuse to stare at him for an hour and a half without getting caught.

You checked your watch again, nerves tangling up in your stomach.

And then the library door slammed open so hard the librarian hissed at someone - and there he was.

Eddie Munson, in all his chaotic glory.

Leather jacket, ripped jeans, hair a glorious wild mess, and a grin that could bring the apocalypse.

You waved him over before he could make a scene.

He spotted you immediately and sauntered across the library, heavy boots thudding way too loudly on the linoleum.

When he flopped into the chair across from you, he leaned his elbows on the table and smiled slow, mischievous.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, eyes sparkling. “If it isn’t my very own personal Professor.”

You tried to look disapproving. Failed miserably.

“Eddie,” you said, setting your notebooks between you like a tiny, doomed peace offering. “We’re supposed to be studying.”

He smirked, tapping the table in front of you.

“Sure, sure,” he said. “I’m a model student. Ready to be molded, Professor.”

You rolled your eyes, heat rising to your cheeks.

This was going to be… a problem.

A very handsome, very distracting problem.

You flipped open the notebook, pretending you didn’t feel your heart hammering against your ribs.

“Okay,” you said, voice only slightly shaky. “Let’s start with Shakespeare.”

Eddie leaned back in his chair, kicked his boots up onto the empty seat next to you, and grinned like he was already plotting your academic downfall.

“Lead the way, teach,” he said.

And you - absolute fool that you were - smiled right back.

You lasted exactly ten minutes.

Ten minutes of explaining Shakespeare’s metaphors while Eddie nodded solemnly, pretending to take it all in.

Until you leaned over to check his notes - and realized he wasn’t writing anything remotely related to Macbeth.

Instead, the margins of his notebook were filled with messy, looping sketches: a dragon breathing fire on a castle, a skeleton shredding an electric guitar, a cartoonish stick figure version of you holding a giant book labeled English Nerd Supreme.

You snorted before you could stop yourself.

“Eddie,” you said, laughing. “What is this?”

He tilted his head, totally unrepentant.

“Visual aids, Professor. Helps me learn.”

You rolled your eyes and shoved his shoulder lightly, pretending not to notice how warm he felt even through the leather jacket.

“Focus,” you said, tapping the book between you.

He leaned in closer, like he was about to share some deep, sacred secret.

“Okay, but hear me out,” he whispered conspiratorially. “What if Shakespeare wrote about stuff that actually mattered? Like… battling dragons. Or evil sorcerers. Or - I dunno - epic metal ballads of revenge and glory?”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing.

“You know,” you said thoughtfully, “that actually sounds a lot like Beowulf.”

Eddie blinked.

You could practically see the lightbulb go off behind those brown eyes.

“Beowulf,” he repeated. “Sounds badass. Tell me more, O Wise One.”

You fought the stupid smile stretching your face as you launched into a quick explanation, watching as Eddie actually - actually - started jotting things down for real this time. Between doodles of flaming swords and screaming skulls, of course.

But still.

It was progress.

Maybe - just maybe - you were getting through that thick skull after all.

Maybe tutoring Eddie Munson wasn’t going to be such a lost cause.

Maybe it was going to be something else entirely.

“Okay, Professor,” Eddie said, leaning back in his chair with a dramatic groan, arms flopping uselessly at his sides. “My brain is officially fried. Crispy. Burnt to a metalhead crisp.”

You laughed, shutting the warm copy of Beowulf with a soft thump. “We’ve barely been at it for an hour.”

“And yet,” he said, placing a hand over his heart like he was delivering a eulogy, “I fear the end is near.”

You rolled your eyes, gathering your pens and notebooks into a neat pile. “Fine. What’s your plan, Munson? You’ve got me for thirty more minutes.”

He grinned - a big, wild grin that made your stomach do an embarrassing little flip.

“Burger run,” he declared. “On me. My treat. As thanks for putting up with my dazzling intellect.”

You hesitated, fingers tightening slightly around your notebook.

Was this… a date?

It wasn’t tutoring anymore, not really. But you couldn’t exactly say no - not when you wanted so badly to say yes.

“Only if we swing by the arcade afterward,” you teased, standing up and slinging your bag over your shoulder.

Eddie practically bounded to his feet, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair.

“Deal, Professor,” he said, holding the door open for you with a theatrical bow. “You drive a hard bargain.”

The two of you walked toward the parking lot, your footsteps echoing together in the quiet halls of the school.

Outside, the sun was setting, painting the sky in streaks of orange and purple.

“You know,” Eddie said, tossing you a sideways glance as you reached his van, “I’m starting to think you might actually be a good influence on me.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Starting to?”

“Hey, slow progress is still progress,” he said, giving you a crooked, dazzling grin as he pulled open his passenger door for you. “Hop in, Professor. Let’s get you some fries before you grade me on English alone.”

You laughed, climbing in.

And as the van rumbled to life and Eddie pulled out onto the road, you let yourself believe  - just for tonight - that maybe this wasn’t tutoring anymore.

Maybe it was the start of something else.

Something a little terrifying.

Something a little wonderful.

Something you really, really didn’t want to end.

“Okay, explain to me again,” Eddie said, kicking his battered boots up onto the ledge of the library table, “how a poem about a guy watching a bird counts as, like, art.”

You bit back a laugh, twirling your pen between your fingers. “Because it’s not just about the bird,” you said patiently. “It’s about how the guy feels watching the bird. It’s a metaphor.”

“A metaphor for… what? Birdwatching is depressing?”

You laughed under your breath, shaking your head. “No, it’s about loneliness. About wondering if you’re really free or if you’re trapped without realizing it.”

Eddie was quiet for a second, fingers drumming lightly against his notebook. Then - in a rare, serious voice - he said, “That’s… kinda metal, actually.”

You smiled, catching the spark in his eyes.

“Exactly,” you said, scooting your chair a little closer. “You already write stuff like this in your music, Eddie. You just don’t call it poetry.”

He snorted. “Please. Corroded Coffin lyrics are just angry noise about death and taxes.”

“They’re angry noise about being misunderstood,” you corrected, nudging his notebook toward him. “About fighting back when the world treats you like you don’t matter. That’s poetry.”

Eddie looked at you, really looked at you, like you had just handed him some secret nobody else had ever thought to share.

It made your skin warm under his gaze.

Slowly, he picked up his pen, tapping the end against his lip.

“So you’re saying,” he said, voice light but his eyes soft, “that I could turn in a song for my English paper and not get laughed out of Hawkins High?”

“I’m saying,” you replied, grinning, “if you put even half as much heart into it as you do into yelling about dragons and sorcery, you’ll crush it.”

Eddie grinned back - the dangerous, heart-stopping kind of grin - and scribbled something messily at the top of his page.

You leaned over to peek.

Professor (Y/N)’s Guide to Kicking English Lit’s Ass

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop laughing.

“Focus, Munson,” you said, trying and failing to sound stern.

“Focusing, Professor,” he said, tossing you a wink.

Outside, the late autumn wind rattled the windows.

Inside, under the flickering library lights, Eddie Munson - chaotic, brilliant, impossible Eddie Munson - started to write.

And you sat beside him, your heart thudding, already in way deeper than you meant to be.

You were supposed to be studying.

At least, that’s what you told yourself when you agreed to meet Eddie at the Hideout on a Saturday night, armed your worn-out English Lit textbook and a stack of practice essay prompts.

But now, two hours and one terrible pot of coffee later, the paper you were supposed to be outlining sat forgotten between you. Eddie was hunched over a crumpled napkin, black ink smudging his fingers as he scribbled frantically.

His rings clacked against the battered tabletop every time he moved his hand. His mouth was twisted in concentration, eyebrows knitted together like he was solving some ancient mystery instead of, you know, studying for English.

“You know,” you said, voice light, “this doesn’t exactly look like MLA format.”

Eddie looked up, eyes sparkling. “That’s ’cause it’s way more important than MLA, Professor.”

He held the napkin up triumphantly, a glint of excitement in his dark eyes. “This,” he announced, “is the setup for my new D&D campaign.”

You leaned in, fighting a smile. “Oh yeah? Let’s hear it.”

He sat back in the rickety chair, swinging one boot up onto the table without a care in the world. “So there’s this sorcerer, right? Real shady bastard. He convinces the party’s barbarian that this ancient crown is cursed. Says it’ll rot his mind, turn him into a monster. But -” Eddie jabbed the napkin toward you - “the curse is fake. It’s actually a test of loyalty. The crown only grants power to someone who trusts the sorcerer.”

You blinked at him. “That’s… actually really good.”

Eddie paused mid-gesture, blinking owlishly like he hadn’t expected you to say that. He twirled the pen between his fingers, suddenly fidgety. “Yeah, well, just makin’ stuff up. Like always.”

You shook your head, resting your chin on your hand. “No, seriously. You’re telling a story. You’re making people feel something. You do it with D&D, you do it with your music… you’re doing it right now.”

He stared at you, caught off guard. For once, Eddie Munson - the loudest, boldest guy you knew - had no quick comeback.

Instead, color crept up the tops of his ears, and he ducked his head to hide a shy smile.

“Guess I had a good professor,” he said after a beat, his boot knocking lightly against your knee under the table.

Your heart stuttered.

Before you could respond - before you could do something reckless like grab his hand - the Hideout’s ancient jukebox whirred to life in the corner. Some grungy metal song with a slow, heavy beat crackled through the speakers, warping at the edges.

Eddie’s grin sharpened the second he heard it.

“Dance with me,” he said, already halfway out of his seat.

You laughed, incredulous. “Dance? Here?”

He swept into a dramatic, exaggerated bow, almost tipping over a chair. “Come on, Professor. Consider it… an extracurricular activity.”

The way he said it - low and teasing, with that crooked half-smile - made your stomach twist in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with the caffeine you downed thirty minutes ago.

He held out his hand.

You hesitated for a single, electric heartbeat.

Then you slipped his fingers into his - warm and calloused and steady - and let him pull you up.

The two of you stumbled into the open space between tables, laughing as Eddie tried to twirl you and nearly sent both of you crashing into a jukebox.

He caught you by the waist, steadying you with both hands, and for a moment, neither of you moved.

Neither of you breathed.

The song thudded around you, distorted and distant, but all you could hear was the blood rushing in your ears.

“You’re terrible at dancing,” you whispered, breathless.

“Yeah,” Eddie grinned, voice rough and a little reckless. “But I’m real good at distracting you.”

You were still pressed close when you realized something - something dangerous, something thrilling:

This didn’t feel like studying.

This didn’t feel like friendship.

This felt like something you might not be able to take back.

Maybe, just maybe, Eddie Munson wasn’t the only one being distracted tonight.

Maybe you were both already a little bit in love.

A week later, you were back to studying at Eddie’s trailer - or pretending to.

Stacks of battered textbooks and D&D modules littered the tiny kitchen table, and Eddie was once again spectacularly off-topic.

He leaned back in his chair, legs kicked out, strumming an imaginary guitar against his chest while humming under his breath.

You tapped your pen against your notebook, trying to be patient.

“Eddie,” you said, drawing his name out like a warning, “we have to at least finish this outline. Your paper’s due Monday.”

He grinned lazily, tilting his head toward you. “You worry too much, Professor. You know I’m a ‘wing it and pray’ kinda guy.”

You sighed, though you couldn’t fight your smile.

Then, just as you flipped back to your notes, something fell out from under Eddie’s elbow - a crumpled piece of paper, covered in messy handwriting.

You bent to grab it automatically.

Eddie lunged at the same moment, nearly head-butting you.

“No, wait -!”

Too late.

You smoothed the page against your notebook, reading the words aloud before you could stop yourself:

Sometimes it feels like I’m built out of songs and sharp things,

Stuffed with chords and bad habits and the hope that someone might hear me.

Your voice caught.

It wasn’t D&D lore.

It wasn’t a dumb lyric or a doodle.

It was real.

“You wrote this,” you said, voice soft.

Eddie scrubbed a hand over his face, groaning.

“Yeah, well, don’t get all misty-eyed on me. It’s just dumb crap. Stuff I think about when I can’t sleep.”

You folded the paper carefully, like it was something fragile.

“It’s good, Eddie. You - you should do something with this.”

He scoffed. “Like what? Hallmark cards for angsty metalheads?”

“I’m serious!” You shifted in your seat, heart pounding. “There’s this poetry contest Mrs. Collins posted about in the English hall. You should submit it.”

Eddie stared at you like you’d grown a second head.

“Me? In a poetry contest? Wearing a tie and reciting stuff to a bunch of nerds?”

You grinned. “You wouldn’t even have to wear a tie. But maybe… maybe you should let people hear you. Really hear you.”

He looked away, tapping his fingers anxiously against the table.

“I dunno, Professor,” he said, voice lower, more guarded. “Might be easier to just flunk English and live in my uncle’s trailer forever.”

Your chest ached at the uncertainty in his voice - the part of Eddie Munson no one else got to see.

“You won’t flunk,” you said, reaching out before you could second-guess yourself. Your hand brushed his.

He froze.

You forced yourself to keep talking, steady and sure.

“Submit the poem. Write the essay. You’re better than you think.”

The air between you shifted - heavy, electric.

Eddie swallowed hard.

“Only if you promise,” he said, voice rough, “to come with me if they make me read that crap out loud.”

Your heart skipped.

You squeezed his hand.

“Deal,” you whispered.

And just like that, Eddie Munson - the reckless, fearless Dungeon Master - looked at you like you were the only saving throw he’d ever needed.

“ - I’m just saying,” Dustin said, trying and failing to keep a straight face, “if you show up in a leather jacket and eyeliner to a poetry reading, you’re legally obligated to start a punk band.”

The whole Hellfire Club burst into laughter around the cafeteria table.

Eddie threw a grape at him.

“Shut up, Henderson,” he grumbled, slouching even deeper into his seat.

Across the table, Mike grinned like a shark. “Are you gonna sing your poem, Eddie? Maybe bring in a smoke machine?”

“I hope they have a spotlight,” Lucas chimed in, “so you can dramatically toss your hair back when you recite.”

More laughter.

You sat beside Eddie, hiding your smile behind your hand.

He caught the look at groaned dramatically, flopping his head against your shoulder.

“Et tu, Professor?”

You nudged him gently. “You’re the one who agreed to submit your poem, rockstar. This is the price of fame.”

He muttered something about mutiny and bad karma, but you caught the way his fingers fidgeted with the leather cord around his wrist - nervous.

Under the table, you bumped your knee against his. Small. Steady.

“You’re gonna kill it,” you whispered.

Eddie lifted his head, looking at you like you’d hung the damn moon. For a second, everything else-  the noise, the jokes, the nerves - just fell away.

Then Dustin elbowed Mike.

“Bet he’s only doing this because he’s in love with -”

“Hey!” Eddie barked, throwing another grape that went wildly off-course and nailed a random freshman. “Don’t finish that sentence if you like having kneecaps, Henderson!”

More howling laughter.

You felt your face go hot, but you didn’t move away when Eddie stayed close.

Not this time.

You stood in front of your closet, chewing your lip, second-guessing everything.

It wasn’t a date.

Not officially.

But Eddie had asked you to come. Said it all-casual-like - “You know, if you’re not busy saving nerds from bad grades or anything.”

Then he’d grinned that crooked grin that still made your heart trip over itself.

You tugged a black denim jacket off its hanger and threw it over your bed. Then grabbed a pair of chunky boots. Maybe if you leaned a little into his aesthetic - leather, dark colors, a little edge - he wouldn’t feel so out of place tonight.

And selfishly?

You wanted him to look at you like he did when you corrected his grammar with a smirk.

Like you were the coolest thing in the room.

After a few more minutes of chaos, you ended up in ripped black jeans, a faded band tee you borrowed from your brother’s room (you’d return it… probably) and your jacket.

Not a full Munson look - you could never pull that off - but it felt close enough.

It felt… brave.

Just like Eddie deserved to feel tonight.

The tiny community center buzzed with low conversation and the smell of bad coffee.

Fold-out chairs lined the floor in front of a sad little stage with a single microphone. A paper sign taped to the wall read: “OPEN MIC NIGHT - Young Voices of Hawkins.”

You spotted Eddie pacing near the door, fiddling with his rings.

When he saw you, he stopped.

Full body, mid-fidget, mouth-parted stopped.

His eyes dragged over you, slow and stunned, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

Then he laughed under his breath - a soft, disbelieving sound - and jogged over, boots thudding against the linoleum.

“Professor,” he said, voice low and awed.

“You look -”

He broke off, shaking his head with a helpless grin.

“- you’re gonna make it real hard for me to pretend I’m cool up there.”

You bumped his shoulder with yours.

“Good thing you don’t have to pretend,” you said, and you meant it.

He swallowed, throat bobbing, and for a second you thought he might say something reckless - something that would change everything.

But a staff volunteer called his name over the mic, and Eddie grimaced.

“That’s me,” he muttered. “Pray for me, (Y/N).”

“Kill it, Munson,” you whispered back.

And when he turned toward the stage, you caught the faint tremble in his hands - but you also saw the way he straightened his shoulders.

Like he was ready.

You sat near the front, knees bouncing, fingers twisted in your jacket sleeve as you watched him step up to the mic.

Eddie cleared his throat.

Tapped the stand twice.

“I uh -” He coughed. “I usually perform with a guitar, so bear with me. I’m a little… exposed.”

A few chuckles from the audience.

You smiled. He had them already.

He pulled a folded paper from his back pocket. Smoothed it open with careful fingers.

Looked up once - right at you - and started to read.

And it wasn’t perfect - his voice cracked once, and he kept fiddling with his rings - but it was Eddie.

Loud, raw, stubbornly hopeful.

Lines about fighting for the things that made you different.

About music, and monsters, and dreaming so hard it felt like bleeding.

You were pretty sure your heart cracked clean in two.

When he finished, the applause was louder than you expected. Real. Warm.

Eddie shoved his hair behind his ears and ducked his head like he couldn’t quite believe it.

But you believed it.

You were already on your feet, clapping hard enough to sting your palms.

He found you in the crowd again.

And this time - grinning wide, wild, and so stupidly proud - he winked.

And you were a goner.

The moment the event ended, Eddie beelined for you, weaving through chairs like he was on some desperate quest. His hair bounced with every step. His boots scuffed noisily across the floor.

“(Y/N),” he said, a little breathless, “did you see that? I didn’t even puke!”

You laughed and shoved his shoulder lightly. “You crushed it, Munson. I’m so proud of you.”

Something shifted behind his grin - something soft and vulnerable. And suddenly he was reaching into his jacket pocket, pulling out a crumpled paper.

“I, uh… I wanted to show you this,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. “Before I chickened out.”

He handed it to you.

It was his latest English Lit paper - the one you two had agonized over last week, rewriting it late into the night between D&D campaigns and caffeine-fueled rants about “academic oppression.”

And there, circled in red ink at the top corner:

B+

You gasped.

“Eddie!”

“I know!” he burst out, laughing. “Can you believe it? Me!”

You looked up at him, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. “You earned it. Every word was yours.”

He rocked back on his heels, looking pleased with himself in a way that made your chest squeeze painfully. “Couldn’t have done it without you, Professor,” he said, voice dropping into that low, teasing register he always used when he was flirting.

Before you could respond, before you could think, Eddie leaned forward - fast, like he couldn’t risk giving himself time to doubt - and pressed his mouth to yours.

It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t careful.

It was all messy urgency and smiling into each other’s lips, like you both couldn’t quite believe it was finally happening.

He pulled back just enough to whisper against your mouth, “Been dying to do that for weeks.”

You blinked up at him, dazed, heart hammering somewhere near your ears.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Me too.”

He laughed - that bright, reckless Eddie laugh - and kissed you again. Longer this time.

Somewhere across the room, the Hellfire boys whooped and hollered.

Eddie broke away long enough to flip them off over his shoulder without even looking.

Then he turned back to you with a wicked grin.

“By the way,” he said, eyes glinting, “you’re legally required to help me write a metal ballad about this night.”

You grinned.

“Only if you call it ‘Extra Credit.’”

Eddie looked like he might combust from sheer joy.

“I am so in love with you,” he blurted out.

The world tilted.

“Seriously...just why?” you whispered to yourself. “They should have chosen another aisle or went somewhere else?” 

It just so happens that the book you’re looking for is in the aisle where a couple decided to make out.  It would be another option to find another book that would be useful for your research.  However, this probably has been the fifth time you checked a book that would be useful.  This is your last hope to get a really good book.  

You check your phone to see that the library would be closing in thirty minutes.  I could...wait for a bit. You thought.  And so you did.  You sit back down to your seat and watch the aisle then wait for them to come out anytime soon.  It’s not like they can do that for thirty minutes.  

Though...you’re wrong. 

“What the heck?  You’ve got to be kidding me!” You gritted your teeth.  There’s only ten minutes before the library closes.  You do not want to wait for another day to go back to it.  Therefore, you stand up and head back to that aisle.  You take a quick glance and find them still at it.  

You sigh in frustration.  Your hands fidget as you rethink several scenarios of what happens if you barge in on them.  One scenario is that they'll leave, but they'll probably glare at you.  Second scenario is that they'll tell you to piss off.  Third is...well they will ignore you.  You just end up covering your face in this situation. 

"Just take the damn book," a man's voice interrupts your thoughts.  You look up to see a man that you've seen from time to time.  A man named Iwaizumi...Hajime? 

Yes, you kinda know him.  You've seen him before and heard of him before.  People knew him as the hotheaded type of person that some people fall for.  He does have the looks, you thought.  Though, you do not even go down that road of having a crush on him because you know very well that you two are the opposite. 

"I'm sorry?" You forgot what he even said after that three seconds of thought process of who he is. 

"Just take the book.  It's them who are out of place," he gives you that frown, but a part of you tells you he's not annoyed at you.  It feels more like that expression is just the way his face makes out of what he wants to tell you. 

"I don't know," you chuckle...awkwardly.  

He sighs for a moment.  He readjust his hold on his backpack that is slinging on one of his shoulders.  With a cold face, he turns to the aisle.  You turn to watch whatever he is going to do.  He just stands there unfazed by the couple making out.

"Hey," he called out.  The couple stops and looks at him. 

"Why don't the two of you get a room rather than being an inconvenience to those students who actually are using the library properly," he snarls.  

"Mind your own business.  There are books somewhere else," the man retorts.

However, Iwa scoffs and crosses his arms just right above his chest.  He looks at the woman beside the man.  "Are you really going out with a cheap man who can't even take you to some place more private?" 

The man walks up to him and fists on his collar. "What the fuck did you call me?" 

You instantly join the scene before it gets worse.  You grab Iwa's arm and try to pull him away.  Though, it seems you forget that he's a much more muscular and stronger man than you are.  

"Let's not make a scene, Iwa," you said.  He frowns and looks at you.  

"I'm not the one making a scene.  It's this jackass over here," he looks back at the man glaring at him.  He doesn't even get worked up by the fact that the man is still fisting on his collar.

You do not know if Iwa is the kind of guy who doesn't care about getting in trouble, but you sure don't want a fight over a book you can't get.  Therefore, you quickly turn to the shelves and find the number of the book.  As you miraculously did find it, you immediately grab it and show it to Iwa. 

"Here.  I found it.  I'm all good.  Let's leave," you grab him again by the arm pulling him away; however, the man is not letting him go.

You sigh and suddenly this part of you just eventually lets you to glare at the man.  "Are-are you seriously going to fight him rather than go back to making out with your girlfriend?" The man turns to you.  You gulp for a moment at the intimidating sight.  

Though, Iwa sees your quite pale face and immediately holds your hand and takes a step forward at the man as if trying to dominate one.  "Exactly.  It's quite a waste of time to try and punch me in the face than to go back to your little business, hm?" 

You sigh at the fact that what Iwa said just made the man more persistent at not letting go.  

"The library is closing in five minutes, jackass," you muttered.  Then the woman finally took it as a queue to pull his man away and leave the aisle.  

You on the other hand took that as a sign to finally breathe.  You did not realize for a moment that you were holding your breath.  You lean a bit on the bookshelf trying to gather all your strength once more.  However, the more you take in what just happened, the more you feel the thrill.  

You laugh at the thought of it.  You have never experienced that before. "You are something," you said.  

You glance up at him as he also turns to look at you with a smile.  At that moment did you only realize that you are talking to someone...you don't really know.  

"I...I mean to say thanks.  Thanks for that.  Though, I appreciate it more if you didn't try to start a fight," you chuckle. 

"He was the one starting the fight," 

"But you were provoking him," you replied back.  

"It's really just the face.  I was told I have a resting bitch face?"

You look at him to see that neutral face he's talking about.  You can't help but just softly laugh about that.  You may not notice, but a smile slips on your lips at the sight of you...laughing.  

"I'll agree with them," you said as you dial down the laugh and look at him.  Your eyes lock with eyes, but you did not let it last for long and immediately looked away.  

"We better get going.  The library is about to close," he said before any awkward silence gets in.  

"Yeah, we should," It then became a signal for the two of you to leave the aisle.

"I'm Iwaizumi Hajime by the way, but it seems you know that already, he said as the two of you walk together. 

"Y/N.  Yeah, you're quite well-known around here," 

  You notice that he seems to be walking to where you're going as well when the entrance door is in the opposite direction you are going. 

"Don't you have anywhere else to go?" You mustered up to ask him.

"Oh...right.  Sorry," he smiles again.  Your heart probably beats a little too fast at the sight of it, but you look away. 

He's about to turn when he looks back at you again.  "Oh, by the way, what you said back there to that jackass, that was pretty cool," 

For a moment, you stood still and gaze at him as if trying to find a reason as to why he just said that.  However, even in that intimidating gaze, you seem to see the sincerity behind his words.  

"Thanks," you replied and gave him a soft smile.  

You may not know that his cheeks reddened once more at you smiling at him.  He pretends to cough to calm himself down.  

"Anyway, um...do you by any chance want my number?" He asked as he looked back at you.  Though, his gaze can't seem to just look at you for the whole time...out of shyness as you so noticed.  

"For?" 

"For emergencies.  Just in case that jerk tries to come at you for what happened back there," he gazes down, hiding away the hidden details as to why he's giving you his number.  

"Oh, yes.  Yes, if it's alright?" 

He looks up at you as you hand over your phone for him to type his number. Then, after giving it back to you, he then bids goodbye as he leaves. 

Little do the two of you know that this little incident would spark a beginning of your lives.  Something that would go a long way.  A special one.  However, what probably began the flames to grow bigger when you finally had the courage to text him. 

You: Hi, it's me, Y/n.  

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