Unlike the previous session, Reine made sure to arrive in class on Wednesday with plenty of time to set up her multimedia presentation. A locked door pinned with an official note stopped her: 'All courses scheduled for this classroom have been moved to the Central Library, Room 104 until further notice, University Registrar'.

She could have called the Registrar's office for an explanation, but with only a few minutes left until six, all of the staff would have been gone for the day. Her students began to congregate around her, and it was clear she'd have to wait until morning to find out what was going on.

"All right everybody, it looks like we'll be in the dungeon for now." She led the group across the iconic Healy lawn and into the basement of the 1970s blocky, cement library.

Their destination was two stories below on the lower level, occupying a windowless corner past a batch of study tables and stacks of periodicals. The stale odor of dry paper and forty years' worth of dust permeated the entire space, and the fluorescent lights reflected off the worn linoleum floor.

It was a far cry from her usual historic teaching space, and Reine wasn't happy with the change. She struggled with the unfamiliar A/V setup, and by the time the class ended, she was desperate to just go home and relax on her comfy couch.

The next day, she got some dismal news; her classes would be in the library for at least the next several weeks. A broken pipe from an upstairs men's room had caused extensive water damage to both the wood paneling and some of the original desks in the classroom. The university didn't expect dealing with the insurance company and then repairing the damaged furnishings to be a quick process.

The only good news was that she was done with classes for the week and wouldn't have to see the dungeon again until Monday.

Heavy rains over the weekend washed away any remnants of the snow, but the dreary conditions lowered Reine's spirits even more. Although she craved Noor's company, the girl was nowhere to be found.

She spent the entire next three days inside doing nothing more than needlessly polishing her dissertation. Stuck inside bored and alone, she had plenty of time to conclude that perhaps it was time to make some changes in her life. The exact nature of these changes eluded her, but at least she was now open to them.

On Monday night, Reine entered the library with the least enthusiasm she ever had before teaching a class. As she got out of the elevator and rounded the corner, she found an unexpected sight.

Blinking a few times to make sure she wasn't imagining things, she saw her eyes hadn't betrayed her. Gabe Moran was sitting at a table with piles of books around him.

Should she say hello or just quietly go on her way? Before she had a chance to decide, he looked up from an open book.

"Hey there." He flashed a brilliant, heart-melting smile.

"Uhm, hi," she stammered. "What are you doing here?"

He pointed to the materials in front of him. "Just a bit of research."

"You know, most of this stuff is online." Glad to see him, Reine was still also automatically wary of his flimsy excuse for being there.

Even so, the unexpected encounter allowed her to follow-up on something that had been on her mind ever since she read about his car crash. Searching his features, she looked for any sign of mortality. It didn't take her long to notice a small scar above his left eyebrow that had previously eluded her attention. She must have always been distracted by his eyes to notice, but that one tiny blemish was enough to confirm Gabe wasn't an immortal, rendering most of her prior speculation moot.

"Even Congressional Records from the 1800s?" he asked as he lifted a yellowed tome.

His journalism major at NYU should have prepared him in proper research techniques so he was lying either about his background or about his need for being at the library. His innocent act, however, would have easily fooled anyone who didn't have a reason to question his motives.

She nodded. "Absolutely. You can use that computer over there, but I think you can also access the database remotely."

"Seriously? That'll save me a ton of time." He slammed the catalog shut. "Thanks for the suggestion."

He flashed a boyish grin and even after a few seconds, Reine was still sheepishly staring at him. Somehow, Gabe always seemed to make her lose her composure. "Sure. Uhm, I gotta go. It was good to see you."

"You too, Reine."

She went off to her class, but even during her lecture she was preoccupied with thoughts of Gabe. She secretly wished he was using the research as an excuse to see her. Unfortunately, by the time she dismissed the students for a brief break an hour and a half later, the area where he'd been sitting was empty.

No matter how much she hoped he'd return, she didn't see him anywhere on her route through the library either two days later nor on the following Monday. She'd finally convinced herself he had truly been using the place for academic purposes when their paths crossed again.

She just left her Wednesday night class and was standing in the back of a packed elevator. A student with an enormous backpack got out on the second floor, but two others took his place. The door was already closing when - between the shoulders in front of her - she noticed Gabe's familiar face. Slipping between the doors before they slid shut, he quickly turned around.

He hadn't seen her.

The seconds it took for the elevator to travel between the two floors seemed much longer than usual, and she considered whether to talk to him once they reached their destination. She became flustered, however, when she recognized a familiar scent. It was the same body wash that lingered on his skin the night of the break-in. The elevator stopped just as Reine realized how creepy - and borderline stalkerish - it was for her to be dwelling on how he smelled.

When the doors opened, Gabe was the first to step out. Instead of turning for the exit, he headed toward the circulation desk. Without a good excuse to casually follow him, Reine begrudgingly walked to her car instead.