She was standing on a ladder, reaching too far to the side to reach a book, not wanting to get down and move said ladder. He was walking by as she reached her limit, and fell, hands grasping at air and catching the black, thick cloth of his robes, and caught herself into firm arms. Standing her up, facing away from him, he stabilized her by placing his hands on her shoulders. He did not seem to be crossing a line. He did not curve his body into hers, or put his hands anywhere but a small bit of the skin of the rounds of her shoulders. But he did firmly pull back on her shoulders, so that she was leaning almost all her weight on his chest. Her hands too did not stray from her sides, steadying herself by laying them, not grasping, against the front of his thighs. She turned her head to the side, laying her check against his chest and giving full view of her frail neck to the man who was several inches taller than her. He breathed, and in breathing took her in. Neither spoke, or really even did more than stand close together, together in silence. She stepped away, turned and faced his chest, not his face. She bid a silent, stony-faced goodbye to the front of his robes and walked off, the sought book forgotten, and a new complication, heavier than any of the thick and weighty volumes on all the shelves burdening her mind.