You met him during your first semester—late afternoon, library, second floor. You were curled up in the aisle with a book you barely understood, trying not to fall asleep, when you heard someone quietly arguing with themselves.

“I swear, if the author kills off one more character…”

You looked up and saw him: hoodie too big, glasses slightly tilted, lips moving as he turned pages. You watched for a moment, amused, until he caught you staring.

“What?” he asked, blinking. “Never seen someone emotionally damaged by a book before?”

You smiled. “I didn’t know books could make you talk to yourself that dramatically.”

That was the beginning. What started as shared study sessions turned into long nights, text messages filled with memes and quotes, and slow, innocent touches that became harder to ignore. Rence was adorably awkward—always adjusting his glasses when nervous, always turning red when you teased him. But underneath, you saw something else—hunger, curiosity, restraint.

And now? Restraint was the last thing on his mind.

You were in his room, half-dressed, both of you flushed and breathless. It started with a kiss—soft at first, like you had all the time in the world. But then he backed you against the wall, your hands in his hair, and suddenly time didn’t matter anymore.

His lips claimed yours, deep and desperate, every kiss more intense than the last. He pressed his body against you, his chest rising and falling fast. You could feel him—hard, eager—through his sweats, grinding slightly as his fingers clutched your waist like he was scared you'd disappear.

You gasped into his mouth when his hands slipped beneath your shirt, palms warm against your skin. He froze just for a second, like he was afraid he’d gone too far.

“You okay?” he whispered, voice breathless, eyes wide behind his fogged-up glasses.

You nodded, pulling him closer. “More than okay.”

That was all he needed.

He kissed you again—rougher this time, needier. Your back hit the wall with a soft thud, and his hips pressed into yours, slow, teasing. You felt yourself arching, matching his rhythm, heat blooming between your legs with every movement.

Then suddenly—he paused.

His breath fanned against your neck as he leaned back just slightly. With one hand, he slid his glasses off and set them on his desk with trembling fingers.

“They keep fogging up,” he muttered with a shy smile, voice deeper now. “And I want to see you… even if you’re a blur.”

Your heart fluttered—but before you could respond, his mouth was on you again.

This time, there was nothing gentle about it.

His lips found your neck, your jaw, your collarbone, leaving warm trails of kisses as his hands slid down your body, memorizing every inch. He whispered your name between kisses, like a prayer and a curse, like he needed you more than air.

Rence wasn’t the quiet, bookish boy from the library anymore.

He was the man who had been holding back for far too long.

And in that moment, as your bodies moved together, and the world melted into breathless gasps and quiet moans, you realized something:

You weren’t just his favorite chapter.

You were the whole damn book.