James was sitting in the library when he saw her.
His heart stopped like a full sentence at her smile, at the way her hair shifted the sunbeams and cast perfect shadows on her cheekbones. Her eyelashes looks like he should kiss her, but James is an awkward jumble of words and he doesn't want to bother her when she reads so he sits far enough away that it isn't obvious he's watching her.
She leans against the bookcase, turning a page. Eyes, emerald green eyes, were bright as they skimmed over the pages as she read, her lips smiling slightly, freckles meeting skin like snow while millions of questions whirl around James's brain stem and tear up his mind.
He doesn't get his homework done, but instead pictures taking her to parks and walks and tucking her into bed and falling asleep talking; he pictures kissing her and kissing her on trains and in the rain, on bridges and under them, in forests and fields and right there in the library, until James realizes that she's standing up to go. And James's throat is clammy, his pulse is racing so fast he thinks it's missing beats and he is rooted to his seat, unable to move. He realizes that he's too scared to talk to her and he hates himself for it and thinks, being shy is the worst thing to be.
But then, when she's threaded her arms through the sleeves of her coat and smoothed down her skirt, she turns to him and shakily says,
"I know this is kind of out there — and asking this is completely out of character, you see, I promise I'm not this weird usually — but wanna get a coffee with me?"