Daughter of None

2

Lex

He didn’t look away.

That was the first thing.

I met his eyes—fully expecting the usual awkward flicker of panic followed by a quick glance at the pavement. But no. He held my gaze like it was a dare. A quiet challenge. Or a trap I’d willingly walk into.

People passed between us—umbrellas, hoods, briefcases—but he didn’t flinch. Not even a blink. Just sat there on a bench across the street, calm as a storm cloud.

His hair was dark and rain-damp, curling slightly where the longer pieces fell over his forehead. The sides were clipped short, but the top… messy, brooding. Too artful to be accidental.

His eyebrows—thick and furrowed—pulled together in a way that suggested he thought far too often and smiled far too little. The faint lines across his forehead said the same. But it was his eyes that rooted me to the spot.

Blue. But not friendly sky blue—no, these were winter-lake blue. Glacial. Depthless. The kind of blue that makes you feel like you’ve just confessed something you didn’t say out loud.

And still—he watched me. Openly. Shamelessly.

My gaze flicked to his lips, full and a little too expressive. They curved into a slow smirk like he knew exactly what I was doing.

Bastard.

His shirt—white, crisp, and definitely not waterproof—clung to his chest, the top buttons undone like they’d simply given up under pressure. It gaped just enough to show the line of his collarbone and a hint of skin that had no business looking that warm in this weather.

He had a black jacket lazily thrown beside him, like it had offended him somehow. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows. His forearms rested casually on his knees as he laced his fingers together—thick hands, long fingers, not the kind you forget.

Even seated, he looked tall. Long legs in tailored black slacks. Polished dress shoes that gleamed despite the wet sidewalk. When he leaned back against the bench and stretched one arm over the backrest—ankle crossed, posture smug—I knew one thing for sure:

He was enjoying this.

And I—I looked like a raccoon that had rolled in humidity and regret.

My waves, encouraged by the rain, had puffed into full rebellion. My eyeliner was probably halfway to my chin. My coffee breath was not charming. I was damp, undercaffeinated, and officially being eyed by some kind of Greek statue pretending to be a man.

Something in me—it was small, but loud—whispered: Leave. Now. Run.

Instead, I casually tucked my book into my bag and pretended not to feel the heat crawling up the back of my neck. I took another sip of my coffee like it might grant me wisdom or invisibility.

The street had thinned out. Most people had disappeared into jobs and buildings and lives. Just ahead of him, a fresh group of pedestrians gathered at the crosswalk.

Perfect.

I waited until the group stepped into motion, then stood. I didn’t look at him again. I slipped into the current of bodies, head down, pace even. My heart, however, was not on board with the whole calm and unbothered aesthetic.

Two blocks.

Three.

A turn. Another group. I didn’t stop until I was absolutely certain that whatever... that was—had stayed behind.

Only then did I allow myself to breathe normally again.

---

The city changed here.

Quieter. Quainter. The tall buildings gave way to grand columns and ivy-covered stone. And then there it was: the library.

My sanctuary.

I climbed the steps, dragging my fingertips across the cold marble column as I passed. The building loomed above me like a temple, modeled after the Parthenon itself. In a city obsessed with sleek lines and steel towers, the library stood like a forgotten god. Ornate. Stubborn. Holy.

Most people swarmed the revolving doors at the center. I ignored them. I preferred the double doors—tall, wide, heavy-looking things that swung open like they had secrets.

Inside, warmth. Wood and quiet and the smell of old paper. Students filled the main floor, hunched over laptops and textbooks, fighting deadlines and caffeine crashes. At the center, the grand staircase spiraled upward like a spine made of stone.

I climbed.

Each level had its own rhythm. First floor: fiction, nonfiction, the everyday noise of children’s squeals and college kids scrolling t****k. Second and third: quieter. Heavier. Older.

But the fourth floor?

That was mine.

By the time I reached it, the air had changed. Dustier. Still. Sacred. I passed caretakers pushing carts, nodding hellos. This was where the rare books lived—the delicate, aging volumes that the world had nearly forgotten. The ones that required gloves and reverence.

I made my way to my workstation, peeled off my coat, and tossed the remains of my latte into the nearby bin.

White gloves on. Tools ready.

I turned to the volume I’d left waiting. The spine was fragile—leather flaking with time and touch. I ran my gloved fingers down the cover and gently opened it to assess the damage.

The hush of this place always made me feel like I was underwater. A kind of silence you could drown in, if you weren’t careful.

I gathered the required items from a nearby storage closet and returned to my workstation, balancing a spool of linen thread, a fresh needle, and a small pot of adhesive in my gloved hands. As I approached the long wooden table, I glanced up—and nearly dropped the entire tray.

Leaning casually against the far end of the worktable, arms crossed and smirking like he owned the place, was someone far less menacing and far more irritatingly familiar.

“Really?” I said flatly, setting down my tools with a soft clatter. “You’re not even going to pretend to respect the sanctity of level four?”

He shrugged one shoulder, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Thought I’d come remind you what human interaction looks like before you fully merge with the archive.”

I rolled my eyes, but a smile tugged at my lips despite myself. “You’re lucky I like you,” I muttered, slipping off one glove and reaching for the damaged book again.

He raised an eyebrow. “I’m lucky you haven’t locked me in the rare manuscripts vault and lost the key.”

“Yet,” I replied sweetly.