The Stacks

WORK STUDY – PART II

Some people fall in love in a lecture hall. Others over tequila shots or spilled coffee or late-night texting marathons that start with “you up?” and end with photos you can’t save to your camera roll.

Me? I fell for a boy whose favorite sound was his own voice—and I work in a library.

It started with his laugh.

Not the charming kind, either—not low or smoky or seductive. Just… loud. Unapologetically loud. Like he didn’t know it echoed through the entire east wing of the library every time one of his tutees made a halfway decent joke.

He was always here before me. Always set up in the same booth near the reference section. Always with a pen behind his ear and a backpack that looked like it had seen war.

The first week I thought, Who the hell talks that much in a library?

By the third week, I knew his schedule.
By the fourth, I knew his name.

Luca Morales. Psych major. Senior. Tutor. Human golden retriever.
And absolutely none of my business.

I worked the evening shifts, which meant I mostly existed to stop freshmen from stealing staplers and explain for the 500th time that no, the library printers still didn’t accept Apple Pay.

Luca, meanwhile, ran what amounted to a TED Talk with snacks three times a week—tutoring some poor kid through stats or sociology while being effortlessly charming in a way that made me both nauseous and slightly curious.

He called me “Library Guy” for two weeks before I ever said a word back.

The first time I did, I asked him to keep his voice down.

He grinned like I’d handed him a love note.

I wasn’t supposed to fall asleep.
I never fall asleep on shift.

But it was slow. The fluorescent lights had been flickering since 7:15. And Luca’s voice—infuriatingly loud when he was animated—had gone soft, low, rhythmic. He was tutoring someone through psych stats again, using that steady cadence people use when trying to talk someone off a ledge or convince a cat to get down from a tree.

I was shelving returns, sitting behind the desk, and then… I wasn’t.

My head dipped back against the chair. I blinked too slow. And for a second—just one—my mind wandered.

Luca.
In my daydream, he was leaning over the desk shirtless, hair messy like he’d run his hands through it. He had a lazy, smug grin like he knew. Knew what he was doing. Knew I liked it. Knew I was going to let it happen.

And then he said my name.

Not loudly. Just Micah, like it was private.

I exhaled.

Or moaned. I think I moaned.

Because the next thing I knew, a book hit the desk with a sharp thunk, and I jolted upright like I’d been caught with my hand in my own pants.

Luca was standing there—no smug smile this time. Just amused curiosity.

“Do you always moan in your sleep,” he asked, “or is that, like, a special occasion thing?”

I blinked.

His eyes dropped to my chest—my hoodie had slipped just enough to show skin—and then flicked back up with a flicker of something I couldn’t name.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” I lied.

He nodded, noncommittal. “Sure. You were… meditating. With sound effects.”

I cleared my throat, sat up straighter, tried to locate my dignity. “Most people snore.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the counter, voice low:
“Yeah. But moaning? That’s different.”

I didn’t have a response to that. At least not one I could say out loud.

He tapped the book he’d dropped—The Interpretation of Dreams—of all things.

“This was on hold,” he said, like that explained anything. “Felt poetic.”

Then he walked away, leaving the ghost of a smirk and the scent of citrusy shampoo.

I didn’t move for a full minute.

And when I did, I was careful not to look at the security camera above the desk.
Because I didn’t need footage of that moment to confirm what I already knew.

I was so screwed.

I spent the next ten minutes reorganizing the already-organized supply drawer. Paperclips by size. Post-it stacks by color. At one point I re-rolled the Scotch tape like I thought I was on some kind of crafting competition show.

Anything to not think about:
• The sound I made.
• The look on his face.
• The fact that Luca Morales heard me moan and didn’t immediately make a joke about wet dreams or call me out in front of the whole library.
He stayed calm. Stayed… curious.

Which was worse. Or better. I hadn’t decided.

The drawer stuck on the way back in and I nearly ripped the whole thing out trying to shove it closed. I probably looked insane. Or constipated.

And of course, he walked by again.

Not looking at me. Not stopping. Just gliding past the desk, hoodie sleeves pushed up, earbuds in now. Casual. Normal.

Except he dropped a folded piece of paper onto the desk as he passed, without a word.

I stared at it like it might self-destruct.

It didn’t have my name on it. It didn’t have any name on it. Just a messy fold, like he’d done it with one hand.

I waited until he was back at his tutoring table, turned away, earbuds still in. Then I unfolded it.

Inside, in loose, lazy handwriting:

“Could’ve been a dream. Could’ve been a fantasy.
But if it was real—I’m free after nine.”

I stared at it.

I read it three times.

Then I did the only rational thing a person in my position could do.

I took my fifteen-minute break ten minutes early.

Outside, it was cold. I didn’t have a jacket. I leaned against the side of the building like the concrete could keep me upright. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A message from Lauren asking about our group project. I didn’t answer it.

Because all I could think about was the sound I made.
And the fact that Luca had noticed.
And the part of me—the deeply buried, desperately rational part—that wanted to find out what sound I’d make next.

The library officially closes at ten, but by nine, it’s already thinning out. Most of the tutors are gone. The desk is quiet. My break was over, but I’d barely left the circulation area. Every time I shelved a book, I shelved it twice—once in my hands, and again in my head.

Luca hadn’t looked at me again. Not once.
Which somehow made it worse.

He was still sitting at his usual table, notebook open but untouched, doodling in the margin instead of tutoring. No earbuds now. Just stillness. Like he was waiting.

At 9:04, he stood up.

At 9:06, he wandered behind the desk like he belonged there.

“You didn’t answer my note,” he said, quietly, like it wasn’t a challenge.

I tapped the circulation mouse, pretending to check something. “Didn’t know it was a question.”

“It wasn’t,” he said, and leaned one elbow on the desk.

He was too close. Not touching-close, but voice-lowered, breath-shared close.

“I figured,” he went on, “if it was a dream, you’d ignore me. Maybe avoid eye contact. Flee the premises.”

“Tempting,” I said, because it was.

“But you’re still here.”
He smiled like that meant something.
And it did.

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I was too busy staring at the place where his forearm bent, where his skin met the cuff of his sweatshirt, where the veins in his hand stood out just slightly. His hand looked strong. Confident. Curious.

“I’ve never seen you sleep before,” he said, like it was a confession. “Didn’t think you ever blinked, honestly.”

“Not really part of the job description,” I muttered.

“Neither is moaning.”
That made my eyes snap to his.
His gaze didn’t waver.

He leaned in just a little more—not enough to be inappropriate. Just enough to make my heart trip over itself.

“I could leave,” he offered. “If you want me to.”

He meant it. I could see it. He was giving me an out. Giving me control.

But I didn’t want him to leave.
I didn’t even want him to step back.
I wanted something else entirely—and I was tired of pretending I didn’t.

Luca studied me for a beat longer, then tilted his head slightly—the smallest shift, but the kind that felt like a question with teeth.

“Or,” he said, softer now, “you could lock the front doors.”

My stomach flipped.

He let it hang there—no smirk, no pressure. Just air between us and a single unspoken dare.

Then, as he turned to walk away, he added over his shoulder, “Meet me in the stacks. History section. Ten minutes.”

I didn’t lock the doors because he told me to.
I locked them because I didn’t want anyone else walking in on what was about to happen.

The thing about the history section is that no one ever goes there.

It’s tucked behind microfilm and old university archives, past the creaky rolling shelves that haven’t been oiled since before I was born. Even the light feels different back there—dimmer, softer, like it learned a long time ago how to keep secrets.

I stepped into the aisle at 9:11.

He was already there.

Leaning against a shelf. One hand in his pocket. A worn-out copy of Revolutions of the 20th Century in the other, like he might actually be reading it.

He looked up and smiled—not the flirty one. Not the cocky one.

The real one.

“I half-expected you to ghost me,” he said.

“I considered it,” I admitted.

“Why didn’t you?”

I took a breath.

“Because I didn’t want to.”

That earned me a small nod—approval, maybe. Or permission. Or just confirmation that this thing between us wasn’t one-sided.

He closed the book and set it on the shelf without looking. Took a step forward.

And then stopped.

Like he was waiting for me to decide what came next.

So I did.

I closed the distance.

Our mouths didn’t crash together. They found each other—like they’d been waiting for the silence to end.

His lips were warm. Sure. A little chapped.

Mine were probably shaking.

His hands came up—one resting lightly at my waist, the other skimming my jaw like he needed to make sure I was real. I leaned in, just a little, just enough to say I want this.

And that’s when he deepened the kiss.

I felt it all the way down.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t messy. It was… deliberate. Like he was showing me what it meant to be wanted, not just seen.

I kissed him back like I was starving.

Because maybe I was.

For something real. For someone who looked at me like this.

The shelves creaked when I shifted. I bumped a stack of books and didn’t care. Somewhere, a fluorescent bulb buzzed overhead like it had something to say about all this.

But we didn’t stop.

It wasn’t about the kiss.

It was about the way I let it happen.

The way I wanted it.

The way he wanted me.

He kissed like he had nowhere else to be.

Not lazy—intentional. Like he’d thought about this. Like he knew what he was doing. Like he’d studied me the way I’d secretly studied him—all edges and silences and barely contained things.

My back hit the shelf behind me. Gently. But I felt it.

His hand slipped from my waist to my hip, settling there like a question he already knew the answer to. His thumb moved—slow, circular, like he was marking time.

My hand found his chest, palm flat against him. He was solid. Warm. And when he inhaled, I could feel it—the way his body expanded beneath my touch. The way he stilled, waiting to see if I’d pull back.

I didn’t.

I pushed a little harder. Just enough.

And that’s when he let out this sound—soft, low, almost involuntary. Like the edges were starting to fray.

It undid something in me.

He moved in closer, hips grazing mine. And suddenly everything felt impossibly tight—my jeans, my breath, the space between us that no longer was.

He kissed me again—deeper this time, more teeth, more heat—and I kissed him back like I was afraid the moment might end.

He tasted like cinnamon gum and want.

I gasped—not on purpose. Just one of those sharp, caught-in-your-throat noises that happens when someone presses their body to yours and there’s nothing left to imagine.

His mouth broke from mine just long enough to say, “You’re really bad at pretending you don’t want this.”

I could’ve said something sarcastic. Or clever.

But all I managed was, “So are you.”

His hand slid up, fingers brushing the hem of my shirt, knuckles grazing skin.

I shivered.

He smiled.

And then he leaned in again — lips at my ear now, voice barely a whisper.

“Tell me if you want to stop.”

I didn’t.

Not even a little.

I didn’t answer him. Not with words.

Instead, I tilted my head back just enough to meet his eyes — really meet them — and whatever he saw there was enough. His breath hitched. His hand slid fully beneath my shirt.

Palm to skin.

Warm.

Curious.

I swore I could feel every ridge of his fingerprint.

His touch was unhurried, like he wasn’t trying to get somewhere. Like he was already there. Just… taking his time. Exploring. Learning. And I let him. I wanted to let him.

My own hands found the hem of his sweatshirt and slipped underneath—no urgency, just the need to feel him. The real him. Skin and heat and heartbeat.

He pressed his forehead to mine, eyes fluttering closed.

“This okay?” he asked, voice barely audible.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

It came out too breathy to sound casual. But honest enough to be trusted.

He kissed me again—slower now. Mouth open, lips soft. Less teasing, more deliberate. Like something was shifting.

His hand moved to the back of my neck, pulling me in. My body followed like it didn’t know how not to.

We stood like that for a while. Kissing. Breathing. Letting our hands wander in the safest, most dangerous ways. Every graze of skin left a trail of static. Every shift in weight, every brush of denim and cotton, was louder than words.

His thumb stroked just under my jaw—absentminded and impossibly tender.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered.

I wasn’t sure if he meant from nerves or want.

Maybe both.

Maybe neither.

Maybe I’d never been touched like this before—like I was being memorized.

So I said, “So are you.”

He smiled against my mouth. “Yeah,” he said. “Good.”

We didn’t rush.

We didn’t strip.

We just stayed—pressed close in the quietest part of the library, tucked between revolutions and archives, breathing like we hadn’t all night.

It was more than kissing.

More than touching.

It was permission.

And the terrifying, beautiful realization that neither of us wanted to take it back.

Eventually, we slowed.

Not because we ran out of want.

But because we’d already said the important part—without saying anything at all.

He rested his forehead against mine again, breathing like he’d just finished a sprint. His thumb brushed the side of my neck once, twice, and then stilled there—a quiet kind of intimacy I hadn’t expected. One that lingered.

Neither of us moved to speak.

I heard the clock above the reference desk chime the half-hour.

Heard the hum of the lights.

Heard my own heart start to settle.

When Luca finally pulled back, he did it slowly, like his body didn’t quite agree with the decision.

His eyes scanned my face—not checking, not reading. Just… seeing me.

Then he smiled.

It wasn’t smug.

It wasn’t cocky.

It was soft. Real. A little wrecked.

Like maybe I wasn’t the only one surprised by this.

“I should go,” he said.

“Yeah,” I replied, though I didn’t move either.

We stayed there a moment longer, standing in the stillness, surrounded by shelves of forgotten history—like we’d just added something new to the archive.

When he finally left, he didn’t say goodbye.

He just tapped his fingers twice against the shelf beside me—a private kind of punctuation—and walked back into the world like it hadn’t just changed.

And me?

I didn’t chase him.

I stayed in the stacks for another five minutes, hand still pressed to the spot where his had been.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like a background character in my own life.

Some people fall in love in lecture halls. Others over drinks or jokes or declarations.

But sometimes… it’s quieter than that.

Sometimes it starts with a moan you didn’t mean to make and a boy who stayed anyway.

To Be Continued…