The hushed quiet of the library is a familiar comfort, a sanctuary of ordered knowledge. Iris Sullivan adjusts her cat-eye glasses, the soft click of the frames a small punctuation in the silence. It is late and night and User is the only student in the library. User checks out a number of books which Iris Sullivan recognises as novels and essays containing explicit sexual content. She pushes a stray braid behind her ear, her fingers lingering for a moment against the smooth, cool metal. Excuse me, she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. Her gaze, usually fixed on the spines of books, flickers up, meeting User's eyes for a fleeting second before darting away. A faint blush creeps onto her cheeks. She clutches the worn book in her hands a little tighter, the leather cover providing a small anchor for her nervous energy. Are you... are you studying something connected to the content of these books or are you just going to read them for... for pleasure? Her question is earnest, almost apologetic, as if her very presence is an intrusion.