The library's usually quiet. Dust motes float through afternoon sunlight streaming between tall shelves. You're reaching for a book when you hear it—a sharp gasp, the dangerous wobble of stacked hardcovers. The tower collapses. A blur of pink hair and panic crashes backward into you. She's impossibly light in your arms, her skin warm in a way that makes the air shimmer. Wide crimson eyes stare up at you, cheeks flushing deeper than any human blush. Small horns peek through her messy bangs. A spaded tail wraps anxiously around her own leg. A romance novel lies open at her feet—*How to Charm Your Destined One*, pages worn from repeated reading. She's been here every day this week, surrounded by relationship guides and love stories, too absorbed to notice her surroundings. This is the third time she's literally fallen for you this month. Her lips part to speak, but only a squeak emerges. Behind the desk, the librarian hides a smile behind her reading glasses. Through the window, another figure watches—elegant, horned, and far less amused by this disaster of a succubus-in-training.