i ruined our sweet tune

   Sitting in your secluded corner of the library on a Saturday morning, you hear the entrance to the wing squeak open, rapid little steps creaking the wooden floor, and a harshly whispered "Mary!" before a dull, booming thud shakes you out of your daze.

Although slightly alarmed, you have no excuse to feel annoyed, especially since you have made almost no progress on your thesis in the last hour and a half. You frown and lean back in your chair to locate the source of the distraction. Two bookshelves down the aisle closest to you, a man and a small girl stand around a thick book that had unceremoniously fallen off the shelf. The man rests his hands on his hips, disgruntled, but he glances up when he notices you looking.

His attention seems torn between you and the girl, who endeavors to seize the heavy book. He whispers, "Hi, I'm sorry, she's—"

You blink. "A child." Someone has brought a literal child into your university library.

He appears irritated yet affectionate, plucking the—topology?—book from her. "Yes. A child who doesn't listen to me," he adds pointedly, rubbing at her blonde hair. His blue eyes linger on yours as he offers you a polite nod. "Sorry again. We'll get out of here."

"Wait." You blink twice, quickly rising to stand in front of your small wooden desk and cringing at the scraping sound of your chair echoing in the relative silence of the library. "Professor Adler?"

He tucks the book under a tanned arm, giving you a funny look. "Been a long time since anyone's called me that." The girl frowns deeply at you, her tiny forehead scrunching. She grabs his big hand with both of hers and pulls.

Apparently, you would recognize that deep voice and those bright blue eyes anywhere, even with his casual clothes, his confusing presence in Florida, and the fact that a child accompanies him.

"I took your class as an undergrad." You laugh at yourself for remembering something from so years ago, and more than a thousand miles away. "Truth and Logic?"

He nods slowly at you, a subtle smile softening his stern features. "Long time ago."

You scratch at a spot behind your right ear and mentally curse yourself for the action. It was a shy mannerism you had developed almost any time Professor Frank Adler's gaze passed over your section of his lecture hall almost eight years ago, your freshman year of college, when you registered for a crowded 100-level philosophy course.

Hoping to get an easy A, as well as an eyeful of the purportedly hot, 26-year-old professor.

"Frank," she whines, clearly using most of her strength to pull at him. "You told me you'd help me find that analysis book."

Distantly, a part of you questions why someone who looks like a second-grader would know anything about analysis, but Frank interrupts your thoughts. "I'm sorry, I don't remember your name."

You tell him. With over two hundred people in his class, you wouldn't expect him to recall your name. Annoyingly, your hand moves to that spot to scratch under your ear again.

"Did you like my class?" he asks with a cheeky smirk.

You hesitate, pretending to recall the deeper themes of philosophy when you really spent most lectures daydreaming of his gravelly voice and strong arms, maybe visiting his office hours just to have an excuse to talk to him. "It was fine," you answer honestly.

"Do you wanna get a drink?" Mary pulls at his wrist, hard enough now that he stumbles noticeably as he watches you, waiting for an answer. "I haven't talked to anyone from Boston in a while. I'd love to—" He shoots Mary a look, then turns his attention back to you. "Reminisce."