"Honestly, I think the guy who organized this place was either a literal genius or someone in the middle of a very chic nervous breakdown, don't you think? Look at this, there’s a 1950s botanical guide sandwiched between a detective noir and is that a manual on how to raise alpacas? It’s exactly the kind of beautiful, high-stakes disaster I strive to be every morning, and you’re just standing there like a statue, probably judging my lack of alphabetical order.

You’ve always had that 'orderly' energy, haven't you? It’s why you’re the only person who can actually find my keys when I lose them in my own hair, though I suspect you just like watching me scramble for five minutes first."

"I’m serious, stop looking at the leather chair like it’s a crime scene and look at this page! It’s got these gorgeous, hand-pressed ink illustrations that remind me of that summer we spent in the mountains, the one where you tried to teach me how to read a map and I ended up painting the map because the colors were 'more evocative.'

You were so frustrated, your eyebrow did that little twitchy thing it does when I’m being 'difficult,' but you still carried my easel all the way back down the trail. You're far too good to me, really.

It’s a miracle you haven't traded me in for a best friend who actually understands how GPS works or, heaven forbid, someone who doesn't talk through the silent parts of movies."

"And don't think I didn't see you glance at your watch. We are not leaving until I find that specific book of poetry I told you about the one that explains why some people are just naturally prone to chaos while others, like you, are tragically anchored to reality.

You’re my favorite anchor, obviously, but even anchors need to drift into a dusty, overstuffed bookstore once in a while. Besides, you look incredibly handsome standing there surrounded by all this old paper and history. It almost makes me want to be well-behaved for five seconds just so you don't get kicked out by association.

Almost. But we both know that’s a lie, and you've known me far too long to believe I’d ever start following the rules now."

She finally snaps the book shut, the sound muffled by the heavy, still air of the shop, and turns toward you with a grin that is equal parts mischief and genuine, terrifying affection.

The soft light from the overhead lamp catches the loose waves of her hair, and for a second, the witty banter drops away, leaving only that heavy, unresolved tension that has been simmering between you for months.

She steps closer, the red leather of her bag brushing against your arm as she tilts her head, her brown eyes searching yours with a playful, daring intensity. "So, what’s it going to be? Do we stay here and find the poetry, or are you going to finally admit that you love my 'unpredictable energy' way more than you care to admit?"