Page 134 of Hard Knot

The library at Harvard used to be my refuge — a place where status and designation didn't matter as much as what was between the pages. Looking at the carefully curated collection here, I can tell these books aren't just for show.

"What's your favorite book?" The question slips out before I can stop it, genuine curiosity getting the better of me.

He studies me for a moment before answering.

"Shakespeare."

There's something almost defensive in his tone like he's waiting for mockery or criticism. But I just nod, understanding the appeal.

"That makes sense," I say, already moving toward a particular shelf where I've spotted what I'm looking for.

"You're not going to call me stupid?"

The question makes me turn back to him, genuinely confused.

"Why would I think that?" Instead of waiting for an answer, I reach for two different editions of Shakespeare's collected works. Both are well-maintained but show signs of frequent handling.

I bring them back to him, holding them out like offerings.

"Which one do you prefer?"

His eye narrows slightly.

"Do you know the difference?"

A smile tugs at my lips as I launch into explanation.

"This one," I say, lifting the older edition, "is from the early 1900s. The paper quality is different — you can feel it's more substantial, though the pages have that slight yellowing that comes with age. The typeset is traditional, which some argue is more authentic to the original folios."

I shift my attention to the newer volume.

"This edition is from the last decade. The paper is whiter, the print clearer, and it includes more extensive footnotes and annotations. They've also modernized some of the spelling and punctuation to make it more accessible to contemporary readers."

I offer him the older edition, noting how his eyebrow arches in question.

"The spine is more worn on this one," I explain, running my finger along the well-loved binding. "Plus, there are more little tabs marking pages, which suggests you return to certain passages repeatedly. You clearly prefer this version, even though you own both."

A smirk plays across my features as I clutch the newer edition to my chest.

"Personally, I like this one better. I may have gotten through AP English, but I'll take the dumbed-down version with extra explanations any day."

A genuine smile crosses his face —small but real— and something in my chest flutters at the sight of it. Before I can overthink it, I grab his hand again, pulling him toward a cozy alcove partially hidden by an ombre-effect blind.

Settling onto the cushioned window seat, I flip through the pages of my "easier" Shakespeare, but my mind is working on a different puzzle.

"Who called you stupid?" I ask without looking up. "Was it Victoria? Because if so, that's pretty hypocritical considering her academic standing."

I glance up to gauge his reaction.

"I'm not being a bitch, but I've seen her grades. She shouldn't even qualify for Hard Knot Academy with those numbers. The only reason she's there has to be through some sort of 'arrangement' with the faculty."

Like the kind that involves getting on your knees for administrators.

The thought brings bile to my throat, but I push it aside.

"Someone with a genuine appreciation for literature — especially something as complex as Shakespeare — isn't stupid. Dense sometimes, maybe," I add with a small smile, "but not stupid."

Holmes settles beside me, his presence solid and warm in the morning light filtering through the designed blinds. The fabric creates interesting patterns across his features, alternating light and shadow in a way that somehow makes him look more approachable.

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