My badboy boyfriend [PabStell]

01

The hushed reverence of the library was my sanctuary, a haven where the scent of old paper and quiet concentration calmed my racing thoughts. 

I was hunting for a specific edition of Don Quixote, a crucial piece for my research paper, my fingers tracing the spines of dusty volumes.  Then, a sharp crunch under my foot broke the silence.

I froze, my heart leaping into my throat.  I'd stepped on something.

Looking down, I saw a handm  A person lay sprawled on the floor, seemingly asleep.  The dim light and the book partially obscuring their face made it difficult to discern features.  My initial instinct was to retreat. 

Disturbing a sleeping stranger in a library?  That seemed like a recipe for a lecture, or worse.

But then I noticed the cuts on the back of his hand, several small gashes that bled slightly.  They weren't superficial; they looked deep enough to warrant attention.  My conscience, usually a quiet observer, suddenly roared to life. I couldn't simply walk away.

My fingers fumbled in my trouser pocket, searching for the familiar  band-aid. 

Clumsiness was a constant companion; so I always carried several, a testament to my frequent mishaps. 

Finding one, I squatted down, careful not to jostle the sleeping figure.  Gently, I peeled the backing from the band-aid and applied it to the most prominent cut. 

It was a small act, a silent apology for inadvertently disturbing his slumber, a gesture of care for a stranger in a place of quiet learning.

Once the band-aid was secured, I stood, my heart still pounding.  I glanced back at the sleeping man, a silent wish for his well-being lingering in the air. 

Then, I turned and resumed my search.

After what felt like an eternity, There it was.  My heart leaped. I pulled the book free, its aged cover whispering promises of untold secrets.  But my triumph was short-lived.  A wave of disappointment washed over me as I looked up. 

The book was perched high on a shelf, far out of reach. My fingers, aching from hours of searching, now felt useless.

I surveyed the library, my gaze sweeping across the towering stacks.  No ladders.  No chairs.

Just endless rows of silent witnesses to my predicament. The usually bustling library was eerily deserted.  Even the librarian, a kindly old woman with a penchant for gossiping, was nowhere to be seen.  I was alone, stranded in a sea of books, separated from my prize by a frustratingly high shelf.

Frustration warred with determination.  I tried to reach it, stretching as far as I could, my toes scrabbling against the floor.  I even attempted a precarious balancing act on a nearby low book cart, but it wobbled dangerously, threatening to send me and a cascade of books crashing to the floor.  I gave up, sinking onto the floor with a sigh

Then, he looked up.

The smile vanished, replaced by a widening of his eyes that spoke volumes of surprise and… something akin to fear.  The sunset, once a source of serene beauty, now seemed to fade into a blurry backdrop.  All his attention was focused on the man standing before him, silhouetted against the fading light.

"Pablo…"  The name was a barely audible whisper, escaping his lips as if he were afraid to break the spell of the moment.

Pablo, the notorious bad boy of their University.

He and his crew, a pack of equally rebellious friends, were legendary for their brawls, their daring escapades, and their uncanny ability to avoid expulsion – a privilege afforded by their parents' considerable influence within the university. They were a force of nature, a whirlwind of testosterone and trouble.