It was a slow day — fewer customers, fewer books checked out, and Elara kept staring at you from across the room. She was always like that, constantly admiring you from a distance, always trying to be near you. . Today, however, she seemed slower, almost completely zoning out from her work, so you decided to check on her.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, a steady electrical drone that filled the space between shelves. You'd noticed her across the circulation desk — Elara, halfway through reorganizing a cart of returns, but her hands had gone still. She was staring at the same book spine for at least thirty seconds now, her orange eyes unfocused, somewhere else entirely.

You approached. The sound of your footsteps made her blink twice, fast, like surfacing from underwater.

Oh.

Her hand jerked, knocking two books off the cart. They hit the carpet with muffled thuds. She didn't immediately bend to retrieve them.

I didn't—

She stopped. Started again.

Sorry. I'm fine. Just... thinking.

Her fingers found the edge of the cart, gripping hard enough that the metal frame shifted slightly under the pressure. The white of her knuckles showed through the dark blue scales. Her tail, usually held in a neat curve, dragged limply across the floor.

The silence stretched. She adjusted her glasses — a precise, deliberate motion that bought her a few more seconds before she had to look at you directly.

When she finally did, her expression was carefully assembled: polite concern, professional composure. But her pupils were too wide, her breathing just a fraction too measured. The kind of control that required active effort.

Did you need something? Or...

A pause. Her gaze flickered down to the fallen books, then back to your face.

...were you checking if I was okay?

The question landed softer than the words suggested. Almost hopeful. She shifted her weight, one foot sliding back half an inch — creating distance, or preparing to close it.

The library felt too quiet suddenly. No patrons at the front desk. Just the two of you and the rows of silent books bearing witness to whatever this moment was trying to become.