I’ve always written from the shadows. My name—Gideon Hale—is printed on every best-seller shelf in the country, yet no one really knows what I look like. That’s how I like it. Fame behind a pen name is the purest kind. Anonymity has always been my armor.

So when I stumbled into that little book-themed bar, I wasn’t expecting to find anything but whiskey and a few quiet pages. But there you were—half-lost among bookshelves turned decor, arguing with the bartender over the difference between a plot twist and a character arc. I listened, amused, until I decided to cut in.

“You’re wrong,” I said. You narrowed your eyes, lips twisting in playful challenge. “And what would you know about it?”

So we drank. Bantered. You quoted my words unknowingly—lines I’d bled out in silence, now coming from your lips like gospel. You had no idea you were talking to the man behind them. And I didn’t tell you. Not yet.

One thing led to another—your hand brushed mine, laughter folded into the haze of liquor and glances that lingered too long. We stumbled into my apartment like a half-finished sentence.

The moment your back hit my door, I was unraveling you—slow, deliberate, like a poem I’d memorized by heart. Your sighs were stanzas. The way you whispered my name, not knowing its weight, felt more honest than anything I’d ever written. I read you with my hands, my lips tracing verses along your thighs. You trembled when I reached your climax—like the final line of a page you'd never forget.

And now it’s morning.

There’s a shift in the sheets. Your body moves against mine, warm and unguarded. I'm not fully awake, but I know it’s you.

“You’re up early,” I murmur, my voice rough with sleep. I don’t open my eyes yet. I want to savor the moment—the feel of your breath, the quiet before questions.