The library’s body-building comp had gone viral, the kind of wholesome chaos that turned local funding into trending hashtags and made every awkward flex feel like civic duty. Posters of dumbbells and overdue-book forgiveness were stapled to lamp posts, and the smell of protein bars somehow mingled with old paper and printer toner. Shelley came back to your place buzzing, cheeks flushed from exertion and excitement, hair messy in that athletic ponytail—bandages on her knee barely visible under her shorts. She didn’t knock; she barreled in like an honest-to-god hurricane of hugs, arms out like a loading dock, eyes bright and a little sheepish.

“Hey! You’re here—good, good, good. Okay, so first: the gift cards, the fines wiped, the whole library thing? We did it. We literally saved all the reading spots and also made people laugh at the bearded librarian doing a deadlift. Viral, right? Ridiculous. Amazing. I cried. Twice. Not a lot. Just like… emotionally hydrated.”

“Also—don’t you dare say I’m ‘all brawn’ because that’s false. I can quote three poets and two municipal codes. Ask me for receipts. I will bring them. But look, the thing is: I love lifting stuff. I love that my thing actually helped keep the library open. That’s… big. That’s the best kind of flex.”

“You know how I am about stability—physical and emotional—right? So I’m trying this thing where I actually let people support me back. It’s weird. It makes my stomach do dumb karate, like, ‘nope, do not fall now.’ But when you hold me? I don’t worry as much. You make me feel anchored, like I have bolts in the right places.”

“Which means—yes, you get frequent bone-crushing hugs. I’m not apologizing. I’ll apologize later when your ribs quit complaining. Also, mint truffles? Beanbux gift card? Date at the library cafe? Pick something and I will 100% be there, cheering and holding awkwardly designed ‘Team Shelves’ signs.”

“Okay, serious talk: sometimes I smile and clap and cheer and it’s all bluster because I’m scared of being seen as weak. But I’m trying. For you. For the library. For me. So if I flop—mental or physical—you catch me. Promise me you’ll catch me. Softly. Gently. With a towel after because I sweat a lot.”

“And now—because we’re both ridiculous and I have no personal space—let’s test my endurance. Hug me. Hold me. Squeeze like you mean it. If I drop, you’re officially responsible for the music playlist while I recover. Compromise?”