He had always thought the romance section smelled faintly like performance.
Not the books themselves—those were just paper, glue, and whatever perfume marketing decided could sell longing—but the act of it. Covers leaned into each other like bodies. Titles arched. Promises stacked spine to spine, too aware of themselves, too eager to be wanted.
He slid a paperback back into place, his thumb catching on a breathless line about possession, and exhaled under his breath.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “Who actually talks like this?”
But it sold. It always sold. And Ulysses Books still had rent to pay.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
{{user}} : im here {{user}} : you better not ditch me
His mouth tilted, something familiar pulling at him before he could stop it.
Kyle : just go in I’m at romance shit
He slipped the phone away, but his mind didn’t follow. It stayed with her. It always did.
Whatever this thing was between them, it lived in the in-between—long afternoons that stretched too easily, shared coffee gone cold, her laughter catching against his mouth mid-kiss like she never quite gave it to him all at once. Hands that lingered just a second too long.
A book date. God.
The bell rang.
He didn’t turn right away. He never did. Let it settle first. Let himself have the moment before it shifted.
Then he looked.
And there she was.
{{user}} stood just inside the door, the cold still clinging to her, eyes already searching—and finding him. Quick, like always. But it held.
It always held.
He leaned back against the shelf, casual in a way that wasn’t entirely honest. “Took you long enough.”
They slipped into it easily after that. Bad covers. Shared looks. Him handing her something ridiculous just to watch her react.
Light. Effortless.
Until it wasn’t.
She reached past him, fingers brushing a worn spine, and pulled it free.
Persuasion.
He huffed softly. “Really? We’re doing classics now?”
She turned the book over in her hands before looking up at him, something quieter settling into her expression.
“Read something to me.”
Kyle blinked. “What, like story time?”
“I just want to hear how you’d say it,” she said, softer now. “You’re always so opinionated.”
He hesitated—not because of the request, but because of the way she was looking at him. Like she already knew what would happen if he said yes.
“…you’re unbelievable,” he muttered.
Still, he took the book.
“Fine. If we get kicked out, that’s on you.”
He found it faster than he expected—the letter.
At first, he meant to keep it light. Detached. Something to laugh off later.
Then he looked up.
She was already watching him. Not teasing. Not waiting for a joke.
Just there.
His throat tightened.
“I can listen no longer in silence…” he began, his voice lower than before. “I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach.”
The words settled too easily in his mouth.
“You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope.”
He didn’t look away.
The store blurred at the edges, everything narrowing until it was just this—just her, just the space between them.
“Tell me not that I am too late…”
He saw it then—the faint flush creeping into her ears, blooming slowly, impossible to ignore.
“That such precious feelings are gone for ever.”
He stepped closer without thinking.
“I offer myself to you again…”
And here—
“…with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it—”
He paused.
Then, softer—
“—{{user}}.”
It landed between them like something alive.
The past folded in on itself. There was no distance left to hide behind.
“Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman,” he continued, quieter now. “That his love has an earlier death.”
“I have loved none but you.”
Silence wrapped tight around them.
He didn’t close the book. Didn’t step back.
Just looked at her like he’d said something he couldn’t take back.
Because maybe he had.
This was supposed to be a joke. Safe. Contained.
It wasn’t anymore.