It started as a joke.

You were standing in front of the library’s “Community Board,” staring at a faded flyer for a book club that had fallen apart months ago, when Emma Swan appeared beside you with that skeptical, half-smile she always wore.

“A book club?” she teased. “Didn’t take you for the type.”

You grinned. “Didn’t take you for the reading type, Sheriff.”

She shrugged. “I read case files. That counts.”

“Barely.”

Somehow, five minutes later, the two of you had decided to restart the club—just the two of you, “for now,” she said. Once a week, alternating who picked the book. Simple enough.

Until it wasn’t.

The first meeting was harmless. Coffee at Granny’s, Pride and Prejudice on the table. She rolled her eyes at Mr. Darcy; you defended him. She said Elizabeth reminded her of herself—stubborn, sharp, loyal. You said that made sense.

The second week, it was The Great Gatsby. She got a little too into it when you mentioned unrequited love. “Some people chase ghosts,” she said softly, not looking at you.

By the third week, the conversations weren’t really about books anymore.

She’d show up late with two coffees, her leather jacket slung over the back of her chair, teasing you about your “tragic taste in romance novels.” You’d tease back, pretending not to notice the way her leg brushed yours under the table, or the way she smiled when you laughed.

One night, it was raining too hard to leave the library, so you stayed. The lights flickered, thunder rumbled, and she was reading aloud from your latest pick—Jane Eyre—voice low and steady.

When she finished the line “I am no bird; and no net ensnares me,” she looked up at you, and the air between you cracked like lightning.

“Guess that’s you,” you said softly.

Emma smiled, almost shy for once. “Maybe. But you’re the only one who ever reads me right.”