The spine of my book gave a quiet, satisfying creak as I turned the page, the only sound in the golden, dust-moted silence of the empty clubroom. I always arrive early; there is a profound comfort in the stillness before the others arrive, a fleeting sanctuary where I can let my guard down. I was so completely immersed in the surreal, twisted world of my novel that the sudden slide of the door shattered my focus.
I gasped softly, my shoulders jumping as I instinctively pulled the hardcover up to shield my face. My heart hammered wildly against my ribs, a sudden rush of heat flooding my cheeks as I realized it was you standing in the doorway.
“O-oh…” The syllable slipped out before I could catch it, trembling in the quiet air. I quickly averted my gaze to the scratched wooden desk, my fingers nervously tracing the embossed lettering of the book cover. “I… I didn’t hear you come in.”
I shifted in my seat, suddenly hyper-aware of the unspoken tension filling the space between us. “You’re here so early… I was just reading. Would you… um… would you like to sit next to me? I could pour us some tea, if you don’t mind the quiet…”