Chapter 6: Dry Clothes and Dry Anger
Agnes lifted her sun hat, squinting into the golden morning light filtering through the dusty upper windows. “Morning, Luna! Sorry I’m late!” she called, her cheerful voice bouncing off the high rafters. She paused, the wicker basket dangling from her arm. “Mrs. Gable said she dropped off scones. Smells divine, even over the usual parchment-and-mildew perfume.”
The sound snapped through the charged stillness like shattering glass. Luna jerked backwards as if burned, her bare feet slapping the cool stone floor. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the lingering echo of Aiden’s groans and the phantom sensation of him inside her. Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through the hazy aftermath of release. Agnes. Here. Now. The thought was a bucket of ice water.
Aiden froze, his body taut against hers one final, impossible second before he wrenched himself away. He stumbled back a step, the borrowed sweater askew, his trousers hastily refastened but unmistakably disheveled. His face, moments ago slack with stunned vulnerability, snapped shut like a grimoire slammed shut. His green eyes, wide and flickering with alarm, darted from Luna to the doorway, the faint glow of his runes pulsing erratically beneath his rolled-up sleeves.
Luna didn’t dare look at him. She focused on Agnes, forcing her breathing to slow, willing the furious flush she could feel burning her neck and cheeks to subside. She smoothed her skirt down with trembling hands, feeling the dampness between her thighs, the rough scrape on her back from the oak shelf, the tiny sting where his teeth had grazed her collarbone. Every sensation screamed evidence. Her long curls were a wild tangle from his grip. She felt flayed open, raw.
Who does he think he is? The furious thought roared back, louder now, fueled by the mortal embarrassment of being caught. Protection, my ass. You don’t vanish for half a decade, waltz back in, kiss me twice, and then take me against my own fucking bookshelves like nothing happened! Her mental walls, momentarily dissolved in the heat, slammed back into place, thick and unyielding as Oobleck under pressure. The anger was a shield, brittle but necessary.
“Morning, Agnes,” Luna managed, her voice surprisingly steady, though it felt thin and tight in her throat. She took a deliberate step away from Aiden, putting physical distance between them that screamed louder than any words. She snatched the basket of scones from the reading desk, holding it up like a feeble prop. “Yes, just brought them in. Still warm.”
Agnes took a few steps closer, her bright hazel eyes missing nothing. She scanned Luna’s flushed face, the wild hair, the slightly-too-fast rise and fall of her chest. Her gaze flicked to Aiden, taking in his mussed red hair, the high colour on his cheekbones, the way he stood stiffly, deliberately not looking at Luna. Agnes’s eyebrows climbed towards her wavy hairline. A slow, knowing smile played on her lips, but it was edged with sharp curiosity.
“Well,” Agnes said, her tone light but layered with meaning, “looks like the early bird got more than the worm this morning.” Her gaze settled pointedly on the scattered scrolls near Aiden’s feet – the ones displaced during their frantic encounter. “Busy researching already, Mr. Blackwood? Or just… rearranging the storage?” Her eyes darted back to Luna, a silent question hanging in the air thicker than dust.
Aiden cleared his throat, running a hand through his tousled hair, the movement awkward. His usual charm felt strained, forced. “Ah, Agnes. Good to see you. Just… familiarizing myself with the layout again. Old habits.” He offered a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. They kept darting to Luna, a silent plea, a desperate question she refused to acknowledge.
Luna ignored him. She thrust the basket towards Agnes. “Scone? Mrs. Gable’s apricot and cardamom.” The normality of the offer felt absurd, grotesque against the thrumming tension.
Agnes accepted the basket but didn’t open it. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she observed the subtle tremor in Luna’s hand. “Thanks. Though you look like you could use one more than me, Lu. You’re practically vibrating.” She paused, letting the observation hang. “Everything alright back here? Smells a bit… intense. Like ozone after a storm. Or maybe just adrenaline.” Her gaze swept the cramped space again, lingering on the indentation Luna’s body had likely left in the displaced books on the shelf behind her.
“Fine,” Luna clipped out, turning away abruptly. She started gathering the scattered scrolls with jerky, efficient movements, keeping her back to both of them. The cool parchment under her fingers was a grounding anchor. “Just… unexpected discoveries in the archives. Needs sorting.” Unexpected discoveries. Like your ex-boyfriend materializing after five years and pinning you against the history section. The internal sarcasm was bitter. “I need to get the lending desk ready. Agnes, could you check the wards on the Rare Tomes cabinet? Something felt off earlier.” It was a blatant dismissal, a desperate attempt to regain control, to put walls and tasks between her and the man who had just shattered her equilibrium against a shelf of Common Potions, Vol. III.
“Wards felt fine when I left yesterday,” Agnes said slowly, not moving. She watched Luna’s rigid back, then shifted her sharp gaze back to Aiden. The warlock-knight seemed rooted to the spot, his earlier bravado replaced by a tense, watchful stillness. He looked like a man braced for impact. “But sure, Lu. I’ll double-check.” She didn’t move towards the cabinet. Instead, she took a step closer to Aiden, her expression shifting to something more serious, though still laced with her characteristic dry wit. “So. Five years is a long time to be ‘familiarizing yourself’ elsewhere, Aiden. The Spire guard you that well? Or just forget the way back?”
Aiden flinched almost imperceptibly. “It wasn’t… it’s complicated, Agnes.”
“Life usually is,” Agnes retorted smoothly. “Especially when you leave without a proper goodbye. Especially when you leave her without a proper goodbye.” She tilted her head towards Luna’s frozen form. “Complicated doesn’t cut it, Blackwood. It looks like reckless. It smells like trouble. And trouble tends to follow you, doesn’t it? Right into our nice, quiet library.” Her tone was deceptively calm, but the underlying steel was unmistakable. She was a friend, but she was also a protector. And Luna’s brittle silence screamed volumes.
Luna kept sorting scrolls, her back a rigid wall. She heard the exchange, felt the weight of Agnes’s unspoken support and Aiden’s defensive tension. His ‘complicated’ was an insult. A coward’s shield. The heat of their furious coupling still pulsed beneath her skin, a traitorous echo that made her want to scream. She focused on the feel of the vellum, the precise placement of each scroll in its designated cubby. Order. Control. Things Aiden shattered with his mere presence.
He took a breath, facing Agnes more fully. “I know how it looks. I know what I did. I’m…” He glanced again at Luna’s turned back, the word ‘sorry’ visibly dying on his lips. He couldn’t say it to her back. Not here, not like this, with Agnes witnessing the fallout. “I need to talk to Luna. Properly.”
“Yeah,” Agnes said, her voice flat. “I’d say that ship sailed about… five years and one storage room encounter ago. Might be taking on water.” She finally moved, brushing past him towards the Rare Tomes section, but paused beside Luna. She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping, low and fierce. “You okay?” she murmured, the question stark and real beneath the sarcasm.
Luna kept her eyes on the scroll in her hands, the ancient script blurring. She gave the tiniest, stiff nod. “Fine.” The word was ash in her mouth.
Agnes studied her profile for a beat longer, then squeezed her arm briefly, a silent gesture of solidarity. “Right. Wards.” She moved away, the sound of her footsteps echoing with deliberate loudness.
The space between Luna and Aiden crackled anew as Agnes’s presence retreated. He took a hesitant step towards her. “Luna, please…”
She whirled around, finally facing him. The composure she’d forced was glacial. Her amber eyes, usually warm like honey, were chips of cold topaz. Any trace of vulnerability, of the woman who had gasped his name moments ago, was buried deep. All he saw was the furious librarian, the wronged woman, her walls fortified and bristling.
“Get out, Aiden.” Her voice was low, devoid of inflection, colder than the library’s stone floors.
He stared at her, the desperation in his eyes warring with frustration. “Luna, you can’t just–”
“I can,” she interrupted, slicing the air with her hand. The gesture was final. “You lost the right to explanations, to conversations, the moment you walked away with a note. You lost any right to be in my space the moment you decided this,” she gestured sharply, encompassing the disarray, the charged air, the invisible marks on her skin, “was an acceptable way to reappear. Get. Out. Of my library.” Each word was a shard of ice.
He held her gaze, the green of his eyes darkening. The runes flared once, a silent surge of power suppressed. He looked like he wanted to argue, to fight, to grab her again. Instead, he shoved his hands deep into the pockets of the borrowed trousers, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped. He gave a single, curt nod, the movement sharp with contained emotion. Defeat, anger, regret – it all warred on his face, but Luna’s icy wall offered no purchase.
He turned without another word and strode towards the main library door. Not the staff entrance he’d used before, but the public one, pushing through it with unnecessary force. The bell above the door jangled a harsh, discordant sound.
Silence descended, heavier than before. Luna stood frozen amidst the scrolls, the scent of sex and sweat and scones a sickening mixture. She could hear Agnes moving quietly near the Rare Tomes, deliberately giving her space. The phantom ache between her thighs was a mocking reminder. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the edge of the shelf.
Then, her gaze fell on the floor near the reading desk. The dark grey fisherman’s sweater, the one he’d borrowed because she’d insisted he cover those glowing runes. He’d ripped it off in his urgency. It lay discarded in a crumpled heap, a piece of him left behind.
The sight of it, so mundane, so intimate, undid her. Her carefully constructed ice cracked. A wave of pure, impotent rage, tangled with a humiliation so deep it burned, surged up her throat. She wanted to scream. She wanted to set the damn sweater on fire.
Instead, she walked over on stiff legs. She bent down, the movement sending a fresh twinge through her abused muscles. Her fingers brushed the soft, worn wool. It still held the faint, lingering warmth of his body, the scent of cedar and sweat. Her traitorous heart clenched.
She snatched it up, clutching the bundle of fabric tightly against her chest, as if holding onto evidence or maybe just trying to crush it. She stared at the closed door Aiden had just slammed through, the echo still hanging in the air. Her amber eyes blazed, not with tears, but with a cold, hard fury that promised no forgiveness. The sweater was proof. Proof of his intrusion, his arrogance, his abandonment, and the devastating, unwelcome storm he’d unleashed back into her life.
The library door, heavy oak banded with iron, swung shut behind Aiden with a resonant thud that vibrated through the soles of Luna’s bare feet. The sound echoed in the sudden, cavernous silence, a punctuation mark to his exit that felt more like an expulsion. Dust motes, disturbed by his abrupt departure, danced violently in the slivers of morning light cutting through the high, grimy windows.
Luna stood frozen, the crumpled grey wool of Aiden’s borrowed sweater a rough, accusing weight clutched against her chest. Her knuckles were bone-white, the tendons in her forearms standing out in stark relief. The scent trapped in the fibers – cedar, sweat, the faint tang of ozone from his suppressed magic – filled her nostrils, clashing violently with the lingering sweetness of Mrs. Gable’s apricot cardamom scones. It was the scent of him, of them, moments ago, tangled and desperate against the ancient oak. It made her stomach roil.
Get out of my library. The words replayed in her head, sharp and final. Yet here was his sweater. A piece of him left behind. An anchor.
“Thoroughly dramatic exit,” Agnes remarked, her voice cutting through the heavy quiet. She emerged from the shadowed aisle near the Rare Tomes, her hazel eyes sharp and assessing, missing nothing. She’d clearly witnessed the tail end of it. Her gaze flickered to the sweater pressed against Luna’s sternum, then back to her friend’s face, taking in the rigid jawline, the unnerving stillness, the cold fury radiating off her like winter frost. “Points for style, I suppose. Could’ve done without the door slam. These hinges are older than dirt.” Her tone was deliberately light, a gossamer thread thrown over the chasm of what had just happened.
Luna didn’t respond. Couldn’t. The anger was a living thing inside her chest, coiling tighter, threatening to choke her. It mixed with the deep, humiliated burn where his teeth had marked her collarbone, the persistent throb between her legs, the scrape on her back – all visceral reminders of her own unforgivable lapse. She’d let him in. Physically. Brutally. Fiercely. And then she’d thrown him out. It felt like ripping off a bandage only to find the wound beneath raw and infected.
Agnes moved closer, her footsteps barely whispering on the stone. She stopped a few feet away, her practical, no-nonsense presence a strange anchor in the storm. “Lu?” she prompted gently, the nickname softening the edge of her usual dryness. “Talk to me. Or throw something. Preferably not the irreplaceable scrolls.”
A harsh, breathless sound escaped Luna. It wasn’t quite a laugh. “What is there to say, Ag?” Her voice was rough, scraped raw. She finally looked up, meeting her friend’s concerned gaze. The cold fury in her amber eyes flickered, revealing a sliver of the bewildered pain beneath. “He just… walks back in. After five years. Five years of radio silence, of wondering… and he acts like… like he’s picking up where he left off? Worse! He pins me to the Potionary Index and…” She trailed off, shaking her head violently, a flush of renewed shame heating her neck. She held up the sweater like evidence in a crime. “And leaves this!”
Agnes nodded slowly, her gaze flicking again to the sweater. “Yeah. Saw the… aftermath.” She didn’t push for salacious details; the disarrayed scrolls, Luna’s flushed face, wild hair, and Aiden’s state had painted a vivid enough picture. “The ‘protection’ line still his go-to defense?”
“Apparently,” Luna spat, the word dripping with venom. “As if vanishing without a trace was some noble act. As if barging back in and…” She squeezed the sweater tighter, the wool rough against her palms. “It’s bullshit. Arrogant, self-important bullshit.”
“Sounds like classic Aiden Blackwood,” Agnes agreed, her tone dry but lacking real malice. “Charm offensive followed by tactical retreat when things get messy. Though,” she tilted her head, considering, “the tactical retreat seemed genuinely pissy this time. Looked like you actually got under his skin. More than just his sweater.”
Luna flinched. That vulnerable