"He's not my boyfriend. It's been one date."
"One date, a week of love notes, and you just made plans to spend Saturday reading together before your shift. That's a boyfriend, Dev. That's a full-blown relationship by your standards."
He's not wrong. By my standards, which include zero previous relationships, zero previous dates, and a lifetime of reading about love without experiencing it, this is everything.
"I need to shower," I say.
"Yeah you do. Use the good soap. The one Melissa gave me."
"I'm not using your girlfriend's soap."
"She's not my — okay, she's kind of my — look, the soap smells like cedar and it'll drive your book man crazy. Trust me."
"How do you know what drives him crazy?"
"He's a shifter, Dev. Scent is like their whole thing."
He tosses the bottle to me and I catch it. It does smell good. Warm and woody, the kind of thing that reminds me of the way Silas smells naturally. Sun-warmed cedar.
"Fine," I say. "But if this is weird, I'm blaming you."
"Nothing about this is weird. Everything about this is perfect. Go shower. Your man is waiting."
My man. The words sit in my chest, warm and terrifying and new.
* * *
The library is quiet on Saturday mornings. The seniors don't come until ten, the families until eleven. It's just Margaret at the desk and the hush of a building full of books waiting to be read.
Silas is in his corner. He looks up when I walk in and his face softens, that almost-smile warming into something less guarded than usual. Like last night changed the calibration, shifted the default from guarded to glad.
"Hey," I say.
"Hey." He nods at the table between our sections. Two vending machine coffees. A book I've never seen,Piranesiby Susanna Clarke, with a note sticking out of it.
Another book. Another note. The collection grows.
I pick it up, read the note:This one's strange and beautiful and unlike anything you've read. Like someone I know. — S :)
A smiley face. He used a smiley face. The man who communicates in strategic grunts and book recommendations used a smiley face on a handwritten note and I'm going to die right here in the reference section.
"Thank you," I say, holding the book against my chest like it's precious. Because it is.
"Let me know what you think."
We read. Saturday morning, vending machine coffee, the quiet between us full of last night and every night before it. His foot finds mine under the table. My foot stays against his. Weread until 11:30 without talking and it's the best morning of my life.
At 11:45, I close my book reluctantly. "I should get to the café."
"I'll walk you over."
We cross through the library to the café side. Robin's already prepping for the lunch rush. He takes one look at my face and grins.
"Good night?"
"The best."
"Good morning?"