This story was commissioned by Jamie.

Rain pounded against the windows of Harrington University Library, battering against the glass like it was trying to get in. Thomas watched the droplets slip down the glass, mentally betting on which would reach the bottom first. This was what his life had become, entertaining himself with water patterns while shelving dusty tomes nobody had touched in years.

The library emptied around six as usual, students scrambling away to whatever passed for excitement in this dreary university town. Thomas had taken his degree in a city bustling with nightlife, bars and clubs open all hours, offering all the stimulation and excitement a teenager fresh from home could possibly want. Harrington was staid by comparison, the local town little more than a village, the pubs stacking the chairs on the tables by 10 most nights.

He ran his fingers along the spines of his neat rows of books as he made his rounds, taking note of the few stragglers who still crouched over reading desks, backs of heads cast into stark silhouettes by the low lamps set in each little nook. He liked these quiet moments in the evening, the hush of quiet study that settled over the place, the feeling of being solitude without being fully alone.

Not that he was a stranger to being alone. It was six months since David had packed his things, pulling apart a life built over eight years without any explanation. Six months of coming home to silence, of waking up to cold sheets, of the empty spaces in his life where a person used to be. The library had become his refuge since then. The silence here felt purposeful rather than cold.

He pushed his cart in the direction of the philosophy section, where Heidegger needed to be reunited with existentialist friends. The rain was picking up outside, drumming against the high windows and echoing through the cavernous reading room. Most of the lights had dimmed automatically as evening came on, casting the tall shelves in a warm amber glow that softened the edges of everything.

As Thomas rounded the corner he noticed a man sitting alone at one of the reading tables, completely absorbed in whatever he was reading. He wasn’t a student - too old, probably early forties, of a similar age to Thomas. His dark jumper looked expensive in an understated way, and there was a stillness around him that Thomas rarely saw in academics. Most of them were twitchy, fidgeters, full of pent-up intellectual energy and unmedicated ADHD.

Thomas shelved three books, stealing glances in the man’s direction. He hadn’t looked up at the sound of Thomas’ cart, was seemingly unaware that the library had mostly emptied around him. Thomas found himself wondering what could be so engrossing. Something about the intensity of his focus was strangely intimate, like he was witnessing something private and secret.

Just as Thomas was about to move away, the man looked up, eyes landing directly on Thomas’ face. No way to hide the fact that he’d been staring.

Shit, he thought. His instinct was to flinch away, to busy himself straightening books, to pretend he’d never been looking. But that never worked, of course. That just drew attention to it. So instead he held the man’s gaze, straightened his shoulders, approached the low desk.

“We’re closing in twenty minutes,” he said, his voice little more than a murmur, sounding oddly formal even to his own ears.

The man smiled, and the dim light somehow managed to catch the gold flecks in his hazel eyes. “Already? Time gets away from me in libraries.”

His voice was lower than Thomas expected, with a slight burr to the edges. The kind of voice made for reading poetry aloud in darkened rooms. Thomas imagined that his breath would smell like peaty scotch, warm and welcoming.

“I know the feeling,” Thomas said, then immediately felt idiotic. Of course I know that feeling. I work in a library. Time gets away from everyone at work. He cleared his throat, looked away from the man’s intense, unblinking stare and off into the gloom of the reading room. “Can I help you find anything before we close?”

“Actually,” the man said, closing the book he was reading - Leeming’s biography of Baldwin - and leaning back in his chair slightly, to better look up at Thomas. “I was hoping to access your special collections.” He extended his hand. “I’m James Merritt, visiting lecturer with the English department. I’m working on a paper about Auden’s later works, and I heard you have some first editions.”

Thomas took his hand - warm, dry, strong but still gentle somehow, grip firm without being aggressive or painful - and shook, suddenly aware of the exact pressure of his own grip, of the slight clamminess to his palm. “Thomas Wells. Head librarian,” he said. As their hands separated James’ fingers slid across his palm, leaving tingling trails in their wake. Static electricity, probably. The old building was full of it.

“The special collections are typically available by appointment only,” he said. Then, without knowing he was going to add it, “but I could make an exception. Just this once.”

James smiled again and Thomas felt something in his chest shift slightly. “I’d appreciate that, Thomas.”

It felt like the stranger had been saying his name for years rather than seconds, and he suppressed the urge to shiver as a soft chill danced up his spine.

Thomas led James through the stacks toward the back of the library, acutely aware with every step of the man’s presence behind him. His keys jingled as he removed them from his belt, the sound excessively loud in the quiet building. All the other reading nooks were empty now, their occupants leaving while the two men had been talking. Thomas hadn’t noticed them go, had been too engrossed in the presence of this stranger who didn’t feel like a stranger.

“It’s a beautiful space,” James said as they walked. “Much more character than the sterile modern things they build now.”

“That’s one way to describe a building with broken heating and windows that leak the second the wind touches them,” Thomas said, then immediately regretted the negativity. “But yes, it has character.”

James laughed softly. “I’ve always preferred places with a few flaws. A bit of age showing. Perfection is overrated.”

Thomas fumbled with the lock, suddenly aware of how close James was standing behind him. He could smell something woodsy and subtle - cologne, maybe, though not the overpowering scents that younger men often seemed to bathe in. He’d never been a lover of colognes, could usually only smell the alcohol base and nothing else, but this scent seemed to mingle with James’ own natural scent in a way that made him incredibly present in the space. Thomas found himself breathing deeper than he normally would, drinking in the smell as the stiff lock clunked open under his fingers.

The special collections room was small but impressive, with floor-to-ceiling bookcases and a single reading table in the middle of the carpeted floor. James moved to the locked cabinet where the library housed its most valuable editions.

“Here,” he said, carefully removing a slim leather-bound volume. “I know you’re working on the later works, but this is the nineteen twenty-eight private printing of ‘Poems’. Slightly different contents to the more well-known nineteen-thirty edition.” He flushed, suddenly self conscious. “But I’m sure you know that already. We actually have a-”

“This is gorgeous,” James said, taking the book from him with evident reverence. He looked up, not immediately opening this book. “Thank you for this. I know you’re breaking protocol. And you’re probably keen to get home.”

“It’s fine,” Thomas said, watching his fingers trace the embossed title. “It’s nice to see someone appreciate these things properly.”

Their eyes met over the book and for a moment everything went very still. The rain, the building, it all seemed to pause. Thomas felt a breath catch in his chest. Something passed between them - recognition, perhaps, or maybe possibility.

Then the clock on the face of the building chimed the hour, and the spell was broken.

“I should...” Thomas said, gesturing vaguely back in the direction of the main library.

“Of course,” James said, offering the book back.

“Take some time with it,” Thomas said. “I have some things to do before I close up for good.”

“I appreciate it,” James said. “I promise I won’t keep you long.”

Thomas closed the door, leaving the man to his research. He realised his heart was beating faster than normal, as though he’d just finished a long run. He told himself it was just the short flight of stairs they’d had to climb to get to special collections. Definitely not the way those eyes had lingered on his, or how James’ voice seemed to resonate in the room long after he’d stopped speaking, a deep thrum that Thomas felt in his own chest.

He returned to his cart of books, determined to finish reshelving before he went home. But as he worked, he found himself glancing in the direction of the special collections room more often than was necessary, and for the first time in months, he wasn’t in any hurry to leave the library when closing time finally came.

The final book slotted into place with a satisfying thud. Thomas glanced at his watch, shocked to realise it was nearly three quarters of an hour past closing time. He hadn’t even locked the front doors. The rain still battered against the windows, sounding almost violent now, and thunder rumbled ominously in the distance.

He knocked lightly on the special collections door before entering. James looked up from the desk where he’d spread several volumes, his expression brightening.

“I was wondering when I’d see you again,” James said.

“Just checking if you’ve found what you need,” Thomas said, trying to sound professional despite the quickening of his pulse.

James’ finger traced a line in the book in front of him. “Auden believed desire was the great unspoken truth behind all poetry,” he said. “Listen to this. How should we like it were stars to burn, With a passion for us we could not return?.” His voice dropped into that resonant register as he read aloud, seeming to vibrate in Thomas’ chest.

Thomas moved closer, leaning against a bookcase, trying to appear casual. “If equal affection cannot be, let the more loving one be me,” he finished automatically. “His imagery always struck me as intensely physical.”

James looked up, something flickering in his eyes. “You know your Auden.”

“I know a lot of things that surprise people,” Thomas said, and heat immediately rose to his face. He once again felt the urge to look away, but he forced himself to hold contact with those eyes.

James closed the book, keeping his place with one finger. “What drew you to librarianship, Thomas?” He said the name like he was savouring each syllable, and Thomas’ skin prickled in response.

“The silence,” he said. “The order. Every book has its place.”

“And every man?”

His breath caught. “That’s ... a more complicated question.”

“The best ones always are.” James reopened the book, found another page with practiced ease. “Auden also wrote about loneliness. The winds must come from somewhere when they blow.”

“There must be reasons why the leaves decay,” Thomas continued, moving closer to the table. “Are you suggesting I’m lonely, Professor Merritt?”

“James,” he corrected, his tone gentle. “And I’m suggesting that we’re drawn to poems in which we recognise our own conditions.”

Thomas took a seat across from him, the small table suddenly feeling very intimate. “And what does Baldwin tell you about yourself?” he asked, nodding toward the biography James had been reading earlier.

James’ smile turned wistful. “That love is worth the risk of pain. That passion shouldn’t be hidden away like these books, only brought out when it’s safe and controlled.”

The library had fallen completely silent except for the rain and the sound of their breathing. Even the old building seemed to be holding its breath.

“I separated from someone recently,” Thomas said, surprising himself with the admission. He wasn’t traditionally an over-sharer. He’d been called ‘cold’ more times than he cared to think about. Closed-off. Emotionally unavailable. But something about this unknown man made him want to open himself, to be paged through and read. “Eight years together,” he said. “And then nothing.”

“The silence afterward is the hardest part,” James said, and it wasn’t a question. He’d been there too. Thomas could hear it in his voice. He turned another page, and Thomas noticed his hand trembling slightly. “If equal affection cannot be, let the more loving one be me.”

“That poem is about unrequited love,” Thomas said softly. “Does it fit, here?”

“Is it?” James closed the book, let his fingers rest on the cover. “I’ve always read it as a willingness to be vulnerable. To risk loving more openly than the other, even if some would say that makes us weaker.”

“Do you think it makes us weaker?”

His hand lay just inches from Thomas’ on the table, and Thomas was acutely aware of the diminishing space between them. They’d slowly been leaning closer, their words becoming softer, more hushed.

“No,” he said, and Thomas barely heard the word, the sound little more than the softest aspiration.

“The library closed almost an hour ago,” Thomas said, not moving.

“Should I leave?” James asked, not moving either.

Thunder cracked outside, rattling the windows, shattering the silence. They both jumped, and James let out a small laugh.

“It’s raining quite hard,” Thomas said. “Perhaps you should stay a while longer.”

James looked at Thomas for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “I’d like that.”

The silence stretched between them, filled only by the persistent drumming of rain against the windows and the occasional rumble of thunder. Thomas watched James’ fingers trace the title on the book’s cover.

“You mentioned other Auden works?” James asked, at long last.

Thomas nodded, grateful for the direction. “Yes. ‘About The House’, his later collection. The perspective is quite different from his earlier poems.”

“I’d be interested to see the shift,” James said, closing the book in front of him. “Is it here in special collections?”

“No,” Thomas said, standing. “It’s in the main stacks. Twentieth-century poetry.”

They stepped out of the small room into the main library. The storm had intensified, rain now lashing sideways against the dark glass above them. Most of the overhead lights had dimmed for the night, leaving only the emergency lighting to cast long shadows across the floor.

“This way,” Thomas said, leading James through the reading room and into the labyrinth of bookshelves.

The stacks always felt different after hours. More intimate, like they were filled with secrets. The narrow passages between towering shelves seemed to close in around them. Thomas was intensely aware of James following close behind, could almost feel the heat radiating from him in the confined space.

“I’ve always loved libraries at night,” James said, his voice low. “Everything feels possible in the quiet.”

Thomas glanced back. “Possible?”

“All these ideas, all these voices, just waiting in the darkness,” he said. “And only us to hear them.”

They reached the poetry section, the shelves here particularly close together, tall stacks that stretched toward the vaulted ceiling. Thomas traced the spines with his finger, scanning titles in the dim light.

“Here,” he said, reaching for a volume on a higher shelf. As he stretched he felt James move closer, steadying him with a hand on the small of his back. The touch, light as it was, sent a current up Thomas’ spine. He froze, book half-pulled from the shelf.

“Sorry,” James murmured, though he didn’t remove his hand. “Didn’t want you to lose your balance.”

Thomas turned, the book clutched against his chest, only to find himself nearly pressed against James in the narrow aisle. Neither stepped back.

“Thank you,” Thomas said, voice barely audible.

James’ eyes dropped to Thomas’ lips, then lifted again to meet his gaze. “You have the most remarkable eyes in this light.”

Thomas felt like the air between them thickened in an instant, suddenly found himself unable to draw breath. He could smell James’ cologne again, stronger now, like the warmth of his body was radiating it outward. He found himself leaning almost imperceptibly forward, and realised James was doing the same.

Their faces were inches apart, breath mingling in the cool air. Thomas felt light-headed. James’ hand slid from his back to his waist, a gentle pressure that grounded him in the moment.

“Thomas,” James said, and the sound of his name in that voice nearly undid him.

The book slipped slightly in Thomas’ grasp, and he adjusted his grip without looking away from James’ eyes. A faint smile played at the corner of the other man’s mouth as he leaned closer still.

A violent crack of thunder shook the building and the emergency lights flickered, plunging them into total darkness for a long, heart-stopping second. Thomas gasped, instinctively grabbed James’ arm.

When the lights stuttered back, dimmer than before, they were still holding onto each other, but Thomas could tell the moment had fractured.

“I-” Thomas began, but couldn’t find the words.

James’ hand was still on his waist, warm and steady. “The storm’s getting worse,” he said, making no move to step away.

As if in answer, the wind howled through the gaps around the windows, and the lights flickered again.

“Perhaps we should move somewhere more protected,” Thomas said, reluctantly. “Away from the windows.”

James nodded, his hand falling away. Thomas felt its absence, an empty warmth lingering like a ghost on his flesh.

“Lead the way,” he said.

Thomas led James through the maze of shelves towards the centre of the building. Their footsteps echoed in the empty library, occasionally punctuated by the violent rattling of windows and the deep, guttural groans of the old structure as it weathered the storm.

“The staff room is through here,” Thomas said, unlocking another door with hands that weren’t quite steady. “No windows, so we’ll be safer. And it will be quieter, too.”

The small room was sparse but comfortable, a worn sofa against one wall, a round table with four chairs, a kitchenette with a kettle and mini-fridge. Thomas flicked a switch and a single lamp bathed the space in warm light.

“Better than emergency lighting, at least,” he said, heading to a cupboard in the corner. “We keep supplies for situations like this. Not that anyone’s usually here this late.”

James stood in the doorway, book still tucked under his arm. “Do storms like this happen often?” he asked.

“Often enough that the university installed a generator,” Thomas said, retrieving a battery-powered lantern and several candles from the cupboard. As if on cue the lamp flickered violently, then faded to a dim glow. “Though it seems to be struggling tonight.”

Thomas set the lantern on the table and arranged the candles on the small countertop, striking a match with practiced efficiency. The flame caught, spreading a soft orange light that danced across the walls.

“Tea?” he asked, filling the kettle. “It’s nothing fancy, but-”

“Tea would be wonderful,” James said, finally stepping fully into the room. He placed the Auden volume carefully on the table and shed his jacket, draping it over the back of the chair. “May I help?”

They moved around each other in the small space, retrieving mugs, finding tea, the mundane domesticity of the actions creating a curious intimacy. Thomas was acutely aware of James’ presence. Every time the other man brushed past his arm or passed behind him Thomas felt a warm shiver running down the base of his spine, the hairs on his arms and the nape of his neck standing on end. Outside, the storm continued its assault, but in here, the sound was muffled, almost soothing.

“Sugar?” Thomas asked, holding up a small jar.

“Just milk,” James said, standing closer than was strictly necessary.

Their fingers brushed as Thomas handed him a mug, and neither pulled away immediately. The lamp flickered once more, then went out completely, leaving only the candlelight and the lantern.

“Well,” Thomas said, voice low. “There goes the generator.”

In the gentle glow of the flames James looked different - softer around the edges, his face half in shadow, the soft contrast of the low light somehow making him look younger. Thomas felt himself being studied just as intently, and he wondered if the darkness made him look different, too.

“Should we sit?” James asked, nodding in the direction of the sofa.

They settled at opposite ends, angled towards each other, mugs warming their hands. The sofa was small enough that their knees almost touched. The candles threw strange, elongated shadows across the walls, and the lantern created a small circle of safety in the darkness.

“It’s strange,” Thomas said, breathing in the steam from his tea. “I’ve worked here for twelve years, and I’ve never been stuck here overnight.”

“Are we stuck?” James asked, a hint of something in his voice that Thomas couldn’t identify.

Thunder boomed directly overhead, answering the question for them. James smiled, and Thomas found himself smiling back.

“It appears we are,” Thomas said, relaxing slightly into the old cushions. “At least until the worst passes.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, sipping tea and listening to the storm rage beyond the library walls. Thomas found himself studying James’ hands, his elegant fingers gripping the mug, a small scar across one knuckle, nails neatly trimmed. Hands that had touched him with such subtle confidence in the stacks.

“You mentioned a separation, earlier,” James said finally, his voice soft in the candlelit room. “Eight years is a long time.”

Thomas tensed slightly, then consciously relaxed his shoulders. “Yes.”

“What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Thomas stared into his tea, watching the dim reflection of candlelight ripple across its surface. He never discussed David. Not with colleagues, not with the few friends he had managed to cling onto since the breakup. Certainly not with strangers. And yet...

“I don’t really know,” he admitted, at last. “That’s the worst part. One minute we were planning a holiday to Greece, and the next he was packing his things.”

Thomas took a sip of tea, watching James’ face for a reaction, heart suddenly pounding. There it was, the moment of revelation. Despite the growing intimacy between them, despite the way James had looked at him, despite the hand that had lingered on his waist and his back, there was still that moment of uncertainty. That fear of misreading signals that every gay man knew too well. He watched James’ face carefully, ready to backpedal, to retreat behind a façade of professionalism if needed.

James’ expression didn’t change. No surprise, no discomfort, not even the too-careful neutrality of someone carefully schooling their face into a lack of reaction. Instead he nodded, with what looked like genuine understanding.

“That must have been difficult,” he said. “Especially after so long together.”

Thomas felt something uncoil in his chest, a tension he hadn’t fully acknowledged until it released. “It was,” he agreed, relief making him light-headed. Or perhaps that was the way James was looking at him now, with a new openness, a shared understanding. “His name was David. Is David. He said I lived too much in my head, that I was ‘emotionally unavailable’.”

“I know something about that accusation,” James said, with a wry smile. “My ex - Marcus - said almost the same thing when he left. That I was physically present but mentally elsewhere. Always thinking about work, about books, about ideas. Not looking enough at the person sitting across from me.”

Thomas nodded, warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with the tea. The awkward moment of disclosure had passed, replaced by the relief of recognition. “David said something similar,” he said, the name feeling natural now, unguarded.