Celestial Variables

The Akademiya library was, as always, too quiet for Layla’s thoughts. It was where distractions went to die — or worse, multiply.

Layla hunched over a stack of star charts, her fingers tapping nervously against the edge of the desk. The rustle of parchment was the loudest sound for several minutes... until it was abruptly eclipsed by the unmistakable sound of someone pulling out a chair directly across from her.

She didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

The Scribe.

Effortlessly calm. Unapologetically present. And, judging by the heavy tome he’d dropped beside him, completely uninterested in how his sudden appearance might derail her fragile concentration.

Layla blinked at him.

He didn’t blink back.

“Uh, excuse me, but I actually had this table first…” she said meekly, her voice was low and misty—cracked at the first syllable that left her lips even she’s trying not to sound as nervous as she felt.

Alhaitham didn’t even glance at her as he flipped open his book. “There are no ownership rights to library furniture,” he said smoothly. “I sat. You didn’t object fast enough. Now we’re coexisting.”

Layla stared at him, horrified. “C-Coexisting? At this table? While I’m trying to calculate stellar resonance effects on the subconscious?”

Alhaitham finally looked at her, his expression as flat as his tone. “If your focus is that fragile, perhaps the theory needs reworking.”

Layla’s jaw dropped. “That’s—! That’s not how mental endurance works!”

“You’re right,” he said, turning a page. “It’s not. Which is why I suggest you build some.”

Layla opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again, cheeks burning.

And yet… she didn’t leave.

༺❀༻

The silence that followed was aggressive. Not intentionally, but somehow… menacing.

Layla shifted in her seat, suddenly hyper-aware of the sound of her own breathing. Her quill made a tiny scratch-scratch noise on the page — far too loud in a room where even dust particles probably filed noise complaints.

She chanced a glance at him.

Still there. Still reading. Still him.

Layla furrowed her brows, muttering to herself. “Okay, Layla. You’re the professional here. Deep breaths. He’s just a human paperweight with a superiority complex. Not a threat. Just... a mild existential disruption.”

Alhaitham didn’t react. Not visibly. But the corner of his mouth twitched.

Was that a smirk? No. Couldn’t be. Unless… oh Archons, did he hear that?

Desperate to escape the oppressive quiet, Layla cleared her throat — which only made things worse. “Um. Scribe Alhaitham?” she ventured, not looking directly at him.

“Mm?”

He didn’t even pause his reading.

“I—I was wondering if you could maybe… relocate to a different table?” Her voice wavered between polite academic and frantic stargazer teetering on the edge of another all-nighter. “It’s just that your… existence is kind of messing with my calculations.”

This time, he did look at her. Slowly. “My existence.”

Layla blinked at him, unblinking. “Yes.”