The university library's main room is grand in the way a gothic cathedral's nave is, university students cowering in the pews in sworn devotion to centuries of accumulated treasure. She is one of them today, toiling away over research likely already done years ago but lost in the ocean of writings in this library.
A drab day's sluggish sunlight falls through the ornate windows and directly into Silicia's eyes when she looks up.

"What do you want, Weaver?", she says, with very little venom in it. But Mira Weaver deserves venom, and she has a talent for producing it.

The woman rolls her eyes, one hand on her hip like a mean girl from a high school film.

"Nothing, nothing," she drawls, dismissive like she wasn't the one who'd stopped right next to her. Silicia shields her eyes with a hand recognizes the book under her school mate's arm. They've picked the same essay topic.

Weaver brushes past her, quite intentionally knocking into the back of her chair, and just before she disappears into the bookshelves, she throws a final insult over her shoulder, nonchalant like she always is.

"You know an academic is only as good as her sources."

Silicia grits her teeth. She's like this with everyone, she reminds herself, they just keep encountering each other because they're in the same very small field. Consoling as the thought is, it doesn't have the power to bring back her concentration. (It doesn't help that Weaver is hot)
The book makes a satisfying dull thump when she closes it. The author's name printed neatly on the library card on the cover taunts her - there is little that can be said in favour of the man, but she will not get far by ignoring him, either. If nothing else, she hopes to get some value out of his bibliography.

She draws a line under her last notes before she begins shovelling things back into her bag. She really needs a walk and maybe lunch, although the thought of the outside world is not an appealing one today with how cloudy the sky looks.
Silicia slings the bag over her shoulder and considers just leaving the damn book right there. Someone would re-shelve it eventually, if not the next student then the library staff, perhaps even Weaver. Althought it's nice to entertain the thought, that's not an option.

Paper and leather bindings have a way of muffling sound that calms her every time. Silicia has yet to find a situation that cannot be improved by walking through aisles of book shelves - although this one might do it.
After a few turns she reaches the last row of shelves, pushed right up against the wall of the building under one of the impressive windows, and there she is, the bane of her existence.

Weaver is flicking through a book just next to where the one in Silicia's hands belongs, standing casually like a patron in a book shop who's just taken a new novel off the shelf and is deciding whether to buy it or not.
The sound of her footsteps stopping doesn't go unnoticed, and Weaver meets her eyes over the rim of her reading glasses. Silicia recognizes the title; she thinks it might be part of a bibliography she's already copied down.

Shrewd eyes flick to the book Silicia is holding.

"Embarrassed after all? Come to quietly put it back and pretend you never took it out?"

Her face flushes with anger. It's less the presumption that stings - she knows it's not a reliable source, she doesn't care if Weaver thinks she's stupid - but that she can't correct her without sounding desperate. It's driving her crazy. She gives as good as she can.

"I expected maybe you were just too embarrassed to ask for it, so I thought I'd bring it back and let you check it out without having to admit you need it."

It's verbose and not very pointed, but the insult hits home.

Weaver shuts the book she's holding and stuffs it back in its place almost clumsily in her anger, before striding over to Silicia to poke a finger at her chest.

"Awfully presumptuous, little Miss. Do I really occupy that much space in your head? Must be getting crammed in there."

Before she's formulated the thought that would have stopped her, her hand is swinging forward - Weaver catches her around the wrist, and the sound of the aborted slap is so loud in the quiet library it makes them both wince a little. The spot smarts, but she's currently very distracted staring into narrowed eyes that are suddenly very close.

"Always so easy to provoke," Weaver reprimands, an ugly little smile pulling at her lips, and Silicia feels a bit dirty for wanting to kiss that. She ought to have other priorities right now, anyway.

"You really do spend an awful amount of time on me," she grits out.

"You should feel honoured."

"Mostly I just feel angry, though."

She licks her lips and Weaver's eyes track the movement - and she realizes she has her. She could just-

"Mostly?"

It's the perfect set-up. Lightning quick, she shifts the book into her open bag and surges forward. Weaver doesn't resist being kissed, just makes a little sound of surprise, and then Silicia is already using the arm she's still holding onto to pull her in.

For a moment she thinks she's royally fucked up and is about to be served sexual assault charges - because Weaver could definitely afford a lawyer just for this - but luckily for Silicia, she reciprocates.

It's sort of messy and still definitely angry, but Silicia enjoys it. Enjoys it right up until the moment Weaver yanks her arm back with such force it breaks them apart and her flat hand smacks into Silicia's cheek. Admittedly, she enjoys that a little bit too.

This time it's Silicia who grins.