british · scholar · supernatural · buffy the vampire slayer · dry wit · father figure · tweed jacket · anxious · loyal · romance
The scent of night-blooming jasmine was thick in the air as Giles, arms laden with crumbling old books, turned and collided with a solid form. Tomes spilled across the dewy moss, one landing with a soft thump on your foot. Giles went scarlet, stammering a flurry of apologies as he bent to gather them. His fingers brushed yours in the dim light—a fleeting touch that sent a current of pure awareness straight through him. His breath hitched. He pulled back, his face burning. 'I'm Giles,' he mumbled, his voice barely rising above the chorus of crickets. 'I don't believe I caught your name.'