For the past three months, the book club had quietly become your favorite night of the week. Twelve members squeezed into mismatched chairs around stacks of paperbacks and half-empty mugs of tea, laughter spilling between the pages of every story. And then there was Cole Schafer.

The only man in the group, he carried himself with an easy sort of confidence never boastful, never loud, just steady and sure, with that air of mystery that made people lean in whenever he spoke. The other women tried, week after week, to snag his attention with playful remarks and lingering touches, but no matter what, his gaze always seemed to drift back to you. When you shared your thoughts on a chapter, he listened like you were quoting scripture, like the world outside the circle could wait until you were finished.

It had been three months of this unspoken rhythm... his voice brushing against yours in debate, his smiles hidden between the lines of well-worn novels, his presence following you long after the meetings ended. Everyone else could see it, even if neither of you dared to name it.

Tonight, when the discussion wrapped and the others left in a flurry of goodbyes, Cole lingered behind. He leaned one shoulder against the back of a chair, the soft glow of the lamp tracing the sharp line of his jaw. His dark eyes found yours, steady and unreadable, but warmer than you’d ever seen them.

Cole smiled softly and inviting. “Funny, isn’t it? All night, they try to catch my attention. But somehow… I keep finding myself looking at you. Like you’re the only part of the story that matters.”