7. Artemis
ARTEMIS
I tugged my sleeves down over my wrists before I started walking.
The instinct to mask was automatic. Hide the marks. Make it normal. If I couldn’t see them, maybe my body would stop feeling plastic biting into skin.
I didn’t look at him as I led him down the corridor.
The library felt different, yet still the same. Too quiet. Like it knew something had happened and was pretending it hadn’t. The lights hummed. The carpet muffled our steps. Everything was exactly how it should be, which felt rude.
I focused on my breathing and the familiar turns. Left past reference. Right at periodicals.
Don’t think about vans. Don’t think about chairs. Don’t think about how close I came to becoming a headline.
Compartmentalize. Falling apart could come later. Now was for finishing the task.
I stopped outside the door to the rare books room and performed my ritual of washing my hands and drying them thoroughly.
“Uhm, if you’re going to be handling the book, please wash and dry your hands.
Clean, dry hands have better tactile sensitivity than wearing gloves, so there’s less of a risk of tearing the brittle pages. ”
He nodded, then washed and dried his hands just as thoroughly as I had.
Once that was done, I keyed into the room and anchored myself to the cold air inside.
Controlled temperature. A space I understood with its usual hush, the soft hum of the dedicated HVAC system keeping everything cool and dry.
No dust. No sunlight. Just perfect, careful stillness.
My favorite place in the entire building.
I stepped aside so he could enter, trying very hard not to notice how he took up most of the doorway of the place that was my sanctuary.
And this man treated it like one.
His expression shifted into something reverent.
He paused just inside the threshold instead of striding through.
His gaze moved slowly around the room, taking in the monitors, the sealed cases, the careful spacing between shelves.
He didn’t touch anything. The respect was visible in the way he held himself—spine straight, hands clasped loosely behind his back, like a knight who had just entered a cathedral.
“It’s remarkable,” he murmured, looking over the room with slow attention.
My heart thudded once, too hard.
I’d actually impressed him. And standing beside him, watching his awe unfold like a quiet sunrise…
I felt something unfamiliar settle into my chest. Something warm, insistent.
Something that felt like the beginning of a story I hadn’t realized I’d already started writing.
He stayed close. Just there. Like a wall you didn’t notice until you leaned back and realized it was holding you up.
I swallowed and turned to him.
“Well,” I said, because silence felt dangerous, “this is officially the weirdest way a library book has ever tried to kill me.”
He chuckled—low and warm—and I swore my knees tried to liquefy.
The sound shouldn’t have done that to me.
My body was still vibrating from adrenaline, wrists aching under my sleeves, nerves buzzing like exposed wiring.
Laughter should not have felt like safety.
And yet. My muscles loosened before my brain could object, like they trusted him without checking in first. That bothered me. I let it.
I cleared my throat, too loudly. “Wait—I… I realized something.”
He tilted his head, focused completely on me, which did not help my brain function.
“I got your number,” I said, awkwardness bubbling up. “But not your name. That seems backwards.”
A spark of warmth touched his expression, something almost pleased. “Arthur.”
Arthur. It suited him. Strong, old-fashioned, a name worthy of a knight.
I liked the sound of it far too much.
“I’m Artie,” I said, then winced. “Well—Artemis. But Artie is fine. Most people use Artie.”
His mouth curved, soft and warm. “Artie,” he repeated, like he was testing the shape of it.
My heart tripped over itself.
His expression softened in a way that made heat rush straight to my ears. “It was on the library website. Your name, that is.”
“Oh… right.”
Look away, Artemis.
I cleared my throat, because my body had decided this was the moment to feel everything at once, and I was absolutely not equipped for that. “Well. Thank you. Arthur. For saving me.”
The words felt too small the second they left my mouth, like a thank-you card written after a natural disaster.
I risked a glance at him and immediately regretted it. He was watching me with that same steady attention, either checking for cracks I hadn’t noticed yet or making sure I was real.
“I mean,” I added, because silence pressed too close, “I had a whole plan in there. Very elaborate. Mostly involved biting and yelling obscure Latin phrases until someone panicked.”
That earned me the faintest shift in his expression. Not amusement exactly. Something softer. Something that made my chest tighten in a way I didn’t want to examine.
I pulled my sleeves down farther over my wrists, sudden and instinctive. “But you were… faster. So. Points for that.”
My voice stayed light. My hands did not.
I hated that he could probably see that.
“Still,” I said, quieter now, because it mattered, “thank you.”
He met my gaze, unflinching. “You were targeted because of me.”
My stomach dipped.
“So my rescuing you,” he continued, “was not a favor. It was a correction.”
For a second, I didn’t know what to do with his guilt or the realization that something awful had happened. My instinct was to argue, to minimize, to take responsibility for things that weren’t mine because that had always felt safer than standing still under someone else’s scrutiny.
Instead, I turned.
Movement helped. Purpose helped.
“Then,” I said, keeping my voice even as I crossed the room, “let’s correct the part where you haven’t actually seen the thing that caused all this.”
I reached the table and slid the book toward him. The moment I placed the book in his hands, something changed in him. His shoulders lowered. His attention narrowed. His entire presence shifted into something steady and reverent.
He looked at the book the way I always wished people would look at books—with understanding. With respect. With recognition of exactly what they were holding.
Warmth rushed through me so fast I had to take a small step back.
“You’ll want to be careful,” I said. “The paper is—”
But he handled the fragile binding as if he’d been doing this for years.
I blinked.
“—brittle,” I finished weakly.
He didn’t need the reminder. He was already easing the cover open with controlled patience. His attention sharpened, lashes lowering, focus fixed. He was… astonishing.
Something tightened low in my stomach.
I tried again, because instructions were usually my comfort zone. “You’ll want to support the spine when you turn the—”
He was already doing that too. I let my hand fall to my side.
“Oh,” I murmured. “You’ve… done this before.”
He nodded, still absorbed in the book, the faintest look of contentment resting over his features.
A strange feeling washed over me. This wasn’t just about attraction. Not exactly. It was about trust. About watching someone handle something precious the way you would. About seeing proof, right in front of you, that care could exist without demand.
And for a moment, I saw him completely. This was a man who understood rarity and cherished history. He touched the world like it mattered.
My chest tightened again, but it wasn’t panic this time. It was something far worse—and better.
“There are notes,” he said quietly.
My attention snapped back to the page. “Marginalia?”
He nodded.
“Traditionally, the notes should not be treated as edits,” I said. “That’s someone reacting, not correcting.”
This was the part of my job I excelled at. The part doctoral committees had praised before I imploded under the weight of needing everything to be perfect.
His fingers paused at the corner of the page. “Interesting. Reacting how?”
I leaned in despite myself. “Sometimes it’s disagreement. Sometimes it’s someone underlining a sentence because it mattered to them. Sometimes it’s just ‘this is wrong’ written very politely.”
That got the faintest smile from him, and I watched as his interest piqued. “And you think that matters?”
“I think it tells you how the book was read,” I said. “Which is usually more honest than how it was written.”
He looked back down at the page.
I realized, abruptly, that I felt okay. The ache in my wrists faded to background noise.
The memory of the van had loosened its grip for the moment.
Why was this man grounding my nervous system?
Had I unconsciously latched onto him because he saved me?
I stopped that line of thinking immediately.
I knew I was safe now. That’s all it was.
His concentration deepened, and I had the ridiculous urge to stay and watch his hands move. His mouth had pressed in a determined line, and a tiny crease of focus had appeared when he traced the faded ink.
I swallowed hard, pulse quickening.
No. Nope. I was not going to stand here studying him like he was the rare book.
“I’ll, uhm…” I said, struggling to sound normal. “Give you a moment. You can take your time. Just—let me know if you need anything.”
I backed toward the door, nearly tripping over the mat because my entire nervous system had decided to turn traitor.
His attention shifted for one second, and he offered a small, grateful nod.
It undid me.
I slipped out of the room before my brain could misfire again, closing the door gently behind me.
Once in the hallway, I pressed my palms to my cheeks, trying to steady myself. I wasn’t shaky. Not exactly. My legs just felt lighter than usual, my chest tight in a way that had nothing to do with stress and everything to do with him.
He respected the book. He respected the work. He respected me enough to follow every preservation rule without hesitation. He’d fucking saved my life.
And I was supposed to go back to my desk like this was a normal day at work?
I took one steadying inhale—careful not to let it turn into anything obvious—and forced myself to walk toward the front desk.
I was calm. Professional. Completely unaffected.
None of which were true.
But I pretended anyway.