His warm palm—big enough to cover half my torso—lands on my chest. “Thank you.”
I want to ask him about it; of course, I do, I’m as curious as the next person. But I also know how f*****g painful it can be to talk about things that have had a deep negative impact, how it can feel like ripping open an old wound that just healed over.
So I keep touching him. Light, unhurried grazes, my fingers skittering over his skin. His eyes never leave me.
When he speaks, his voice is hoarse. “I love working at the library. It’s so peaceful there among all the books. But what I’d really like to do is open a used bookstore, focused on a particular genre. Like sci-fi for example. Maybe with a section for rarities. And autographed books.”
“It sounds like a lovely dream.”
He hums. “I don’t know the firs
