All the ways i have wanted you

Chapter 5: Flashback – The Library

Twelve Years Ago – Greenwich Academy

Scarlett – Age 17

The library was supposed to be empty.

It was a Thursday afternoon in late April, three weeks before the AP History final, and every other student at Greenwich Academy was either at sports practice or cramming for the SATs in the dorm common rooms. The library's high arched windows let in the weak spring sunlight, dust motes dancing in the golden beams, and the smell of old books hung in the air like a prayer.

Scarlett had claimed her usual table—the one in the back corner, hidden behind the reference shelves, where no one ever found her. She had spread out her notes, her textbook, three highlighters, and a bag of gummy bears. She was ready to conquer the American Revolution.

She was not ready for Dominic Blackwood.

"Mind if I sit here?"

She looked up. He was standing at the edge of her table, a stack of books in his arms, his dark hair falling across his forehead. His uniform shirt was untucked—a violation of the dress code that would have earned anyone else a detention—and his tie was loosened like he had been tugging at it all day.

Scarlett had noticed Dominic before. It was impossible not to. He was tall and quiet and moved through the hallways like he was trying not to be seen. He sat two rows behind her in AP History, and she had caught him watching her more than once.

She always looked away first.

"There are twenty other tables," she said.

"This one has the best light."

"The light is the same everywhere."

"The light is not the same everywhere." He dropped into the chair across from her without waiting for permission. His books hit the table with a thud. "The windows face south. Afternoon light is warmer. Better for concentration."

Scarlett stared at him. "You've thought about this."

"I've thought about a lot of things."

She didn't know what to say to that. So she went back to her notes.

Dominic opened his textbook. The pages were filled with annotations—tiny, cramped handwriting in the margins, underlining, asterisks, entire paragraphs bracketed off. He took studying seriously. She hadn't expected that.

For ten minutes, they worked in silence.

But Scarlett couldn't focus. Her eyes kept drifting across the table to his hands. His long fingers. The way he tapped his pen against the page when he was thinking. The way he chewed on his lower lip when he read.

"You're staring," he said without looking up.

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm thinking."

"About what?"

Scarlett grabbed a gummy bear. Bit its head off. "The Federalist Papers."

Dominic looked up. His eyes—dark, intense, impossible to read—studied her face.

"No, you're not."

"How do you know?"

"Because you've been holding the same highlighter for ten minutes and you haven't marked a single page."

Scarlett looked down at her hands. He was right. The yellow highlighter was still capped.

She set it down carefully. "Maybe I'm distracted."

"By what?"

By you.

She didn't say it. She was Scarlett Monroe. She didn't get distracted by boys. She got As and ran student council and had a five-year plan that did not include mysterious dark-haired classmates with untucked shirts and annotated textbooks.

"By the volume of material," she said instead. "This final is going to be brutal."

Dominic leaned back in his chair. His eyes never left her face.

"You'll ace it."

"You don't know that."

"I know you got a 98 on the midterm. I know you answer every question in class before the teacher finishes asking it. I know you're the smartest person in that room, and you're too polite to admit it."

Scarlett's face heated. "You've been paying attention."

"I've been paying attention to you for three years."

The words hung in the air.

Scarlett forgot how to breathe.

"Why?" she asked finally.

Dominic's jaw tightened. He looked down at his textbook, then back at her. For a moment, he looked like he was going to say something else. Something bigger.

Then the moment passed.

"You're interesting," he said. "Most people here are boring. You're not."

"That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me."

"It's not nice. It's true."

Scarlett laughed. She couldn't help it. The sound echoed off the library walls, too loud in the quiet space.

Dominic smiled. It was a small smile—barely a curve of his lips—but it transformed his face. Made him look younger. Softer.

"You should smile more," he said.

"I smile plenty."

"You smile at teachers. At your friends. At the debate team when you win." He leaned forward. "You don't smile at me."

"Maybe you haven't given me a reason to."

"I'm trying."

Scarlett's heart stuttered.

She looked at him—really looked. At the sharp line of his jaw. At the way his dark hair fell across his forehead. At the intensity in his eyes that she had always assumed was arrogance but now recognized as something else entirely.

Something that looked a lot like fear.

"Why now?" she asked softly. "Why sit with me today?"

Dominic was quiet for a long moment. His fingers traced the edge of his textbook.

"Because I'm tired of watching you from two rows back," he said. "I'm tired of wondering what would happen if I just—" He stopped. Swallowed. "If I just talked to you."

"We're talking."

"We are."

"And?"

Dominic reached across the table. His fingers brushed hers. Just a touch. Barely a second. But Scarlett felt it everywhere.

"I don't know what happens next," he said. "I've never done this before."

"Done what?"

"Told someone they matter."

Scarlett turned her hand over. Her palm faced up. An invitation.

Dominic looked at her hand. Then at her face.

"I matter to you?" she asked.

"You matter to me more than anyone I've ever met. And I don't know what to do with that."

"Maybe you don't have to do anything."

"Maybe I want to."

The library was silent. The afternoon light shifted, golden beams sliding across the table, illuminating the space between them.

Scarlett's heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it.

"Dominic—"

The library door slammed open.

"Scarlett! There you are!"

Scarlett yanked her hand back. Her friend Chloe was barreling toward them, a stack of flyers in her arms, her ponytail swinging.

"The prom committee meeting got moved to four. We need you. Mrs. Davenport is losing her mind about the centerpieces."

Scarlett looked at Dominic. His face had closed off. The softness was gone, replaced by the careful mask she was used to seeing in the hallway.

"I have to—"

"Go." He was already packing his books. "I'll see you in class."

"Dominic—"

"Go, Scarlett."

She stood up. Her legs felt unsteady. Her hand still tingled where he had touched her.

She followed Chloe out of the library.

But at the door, she turned back.

Dominic was watching her. His books were packed, but he hadn't moved from the table. He was just sitting there, in the golden afternoon light, looking at her like she was the only thing in the room worth seeing.

Scarlett wanted to go back.

She wanted to sit down across from him and ask him what he meant. She wanted to know what happened next. She wanted to find out if the feeling in her chest—that terrifying, exhilarating, completely unfamiliar feeling—was something real or just the product of spring sunlight and old books and a boy with dark eyes.

But Chloe was pulling her arm, and the prom committee was waiting, and Mrs. Davenport was losing her mind.

So Scarlett walked away.

She told herself there would be other afternoons. Other libraries. Other chances to figure out what was happening between her and Dominic Blackwood.

She didn't know that the next time they sat across from each other, twelve years would have passed.

She didn't know that she would spend those twelve years wondering what would have happened if she had stayed.

She didn't know that Dominic would spend them wondering too.

---

Present Day – Chicago

Dominic

The memory faded.

Dominic blinked. He was back in the penthouse. The wine was still on the table. The city lights still glittered beyond the windows.

And Scarlett was sitting beside him on the couch, her hand in his, her eyes searching his face.

"What just happened?" she asked softly. "You went somewhere else."

"I was remembering."

"The library?"

He looked at her. "You remember."

"I remember everything." She squeezed his hand. "I remember you touching my fingers across the table. I remember thinking I should stay. I remember walking away and knowing—knowing—that I was making a mistake."

"You didn't know."

"I knew enough." Her voice cracked. "I knew you mattered. I knew I wanted to find out what that meant. And I still walked away because I was seventeen and scared and I didn't know how to tell you that you made me feel things I didn't have words for."

Dominic lifted her hand to his lips. Pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

"We were kids."

"We were kids who lost twelve years."

"We're here now."

Scarlett's eyes glistened. "Are we?"

Dominic set her hand down gently. He cupped her face, his thumbs tracing her cheekbones, her tears, the soft curve of her jaw.

"I'm not walking away this time," he said. "I don't care how many meetings you have. I don't care how many miles are between Chicago and Boston. I don't care about any of it."

"What do you care about?"

"You." His voice broke on the word. "Just you."

Scarlett closed her eyes.

A tear slipped down her cheek.

Dominic caught it.

"Stay," he whispered. "Not for twenty minutes. Not for tonight. Stay for as long as this takes. As long as we need. Just—stay."

Scarlett opened her eyes.

She looked at him for a long, agonizing moment.

Then she nodded.

"Okay," she said. "I'll stay."