There are a thousand better ways to spend a Tuesday night than watching a grown man fall down a staircase in slow motion.
You’d think physics wouldn’t allow for slow motion in real life. You’d be wrong.
He appears at the top of the main library stairs while I’m behind the circulation desk, half-watching a girl try to sneak an iced latte past the “No Drinks” sign. He’s loaded down with a teetering stack of books, plus a laptop, plus something that looks suspiciously like a plant in a ceramic pot. Because of course.
One misstep. A scuffed sneaker catches the rubber edge of the top stair.
The entire world inhales.
“Whoa—” he yelps.
Books tilt. The plant lurches. His arms pinwheel as if he can negotiate with gravity.
He can’t.
He pitches forward.
“Seriously?” I mutter, shoving through the gate and sprinting toward him before my brain catches up. Pages explode into the air. The plant goes airborne. The guy’s laptop slides like a doomed penguin down the polished wood.
He hits the stairs with an oof that echoes through the vaulted entryway. A couple of students gasp. Someone starts to laugh, then chokes it back when they see his face.
I reach him halfway down. “Don’t move,” I say automatically, dropping to one knee. “You might have broken something.”
“Just my dignity,” he groans. “Pretty sure that shattered on impact.”
His voice is warm and deep and maddeningly calm for someone who just tried to reenact an action movie stunt without the stunt coordinator.
I check for blood first. None on his head, no awkward limb angles—just a scattering of bruises already surfacing along his forearm where his sleeve’s pushed up. He’s lanky, in a soft T-shirt and hoodie that probably cost more than my rent while still pretending to be casual. Dark hair, just long enough to flop into his eyes. Those eyes are clear, steady, and fixed on me with an intensity that makes my pulse misbehave.
Focus, Amelia.
“Can you wiggle your toes?” I ask.
He obeys, sneakers flexing. “I can also recite the Dewey Decimal System if you’d like to test for a concussion.”
“Dewey isn’t used here,” I say, because arguments about cataloging systems are my love language. “And you’re not funny.”
One side of his mouth curves. “You sound very sure about both of those.”
There it is, the spark of flirtation I do not have time for.
At the top of the stairs, a precarious avalanche of his belongings threatens to complete its descent. I move on instinct, twisting to catch the sliding laptop with one hand before it careens down two more steps.
The sudden motion pulls my shirt up a fraction. Cold air kisses the strip of skin above my waistband, and I’m acutely aware that his gaze flickers there for a heartbeat before snapping back to my face.
My cheeks heat. I shove the laptop against his chest. “Hold this. Don’t move. I’m going to rescue your… jungle.”
“Philodendron,” he corrects weakly. “And thanks. He’s sensitive.”
Of course the plant has a pronoun.
I dart up the stairs, grab the pot before it completes its suicide mission, and then crouch to collect stray books. Advanced Econometrics. Political Power Structures. An enormous hardcover on nonprofit governance. Mixed in with an intro psychology text that looks barely touched.
