Stories Between the Shelves

Lila had always loved bookstores—the way they smelled like old paper and coffee, the quiet, the promise that anything could happen between pages. But today felt different. Maybe it was because Anthony was here. Or maybe because everything in her life had shifted slightly off its axis, in the best possible way.

He held the door open for her with a smirk. “Ladies first, angel.”

There it was again. That name. Every time he said it, something fluttered behind her ribs like a bird testing its wings. She gave him a playful side glance as she stepped into the shop.

“You’ve really committed to that nickname,” she murmured, brushing her hand against a stack of journals by the entrance.

He was close behind her, voice low in her ear. “You’ve earned it.”

She shivered.

The bookstore was quiet—early afternoon light filtered in through wide front windows, casting the shelves in soft gold. The air smelled like cedarwood, espresso, and the faintest hint of vanilla from a candle burning near the register. It was cozy, familiar. Safe.

Anthony wandered toward the fiction section while Lila ran her fingers along a row of spines. She paused at a worn copy of Wuthering Heights, flipping it open to a passage she’d underlined in her own copy at home. Something about passion and destruction and longing that refused to fade.

“You’d make a good Catherine,” Anthony said behind her, his voice thoughtful. “But less tragic. I’d never leave you on a moor.”

She turned, laughing. “That’s a weirdly romantic thing to say.”

He shrugged. “Weirdly romantic is kind of my thing.”

She blushed, tucking the book under her arm. “We should find something you’d like.”

They drifted through the aisles together, pulling out titles, comparing tastes—him more into thrillers and old philosophy books, her favoring modern poetry and angsty novels. At one point, he challenged her to find the oldest book in the store. She found one with a broken spine and scribbled notes in the margins dated back to the 1950s. He kissed her cheek when she handed it to him, whispering, “Beautiful and clever.”

At the far back of the store was a reading nook with a deep leather armchair and a tiny table covered in bookmarks and a cracked mug of pens. Lila sat on the arm of the chair while Anthony took the seat itself, tugging her legs across his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You’ve been quiet today,” he said, resting his hand on her thigh.

Lila hesitated. “Not in a bad way. I’m just… soaking it all in.”

“Like what?”

She gave a small smile. “That I get to do normal things with you. Bookstores. Wandering around. Holding hands. It’s so—soft. But still intense. Somehow.”

Anthony leaned forward, pressing his forehead to hers. “You know what I love about this?” he murmured. “That no matter what we do—kissing you, texting you things I shouldn’t be saying out loud, or just this… holding you like this—it always feels like everything.”

Her breath caught. “Yeah. Me too.”

His hand shifted, fingertips tracing slow circles over her leg. Nothing inappropriate—just enough to make her heart race. He looked up at her like she was something sacred.

“You wore the necklace,” he said, tugging gently at the cross resting just below her collarbone.

“I haven’t taken it off since you gave it to me.”

His eyes softened. “It looks good on you. You look good.”

Lila smiled, heat blooming in her chest. “I like being yours.”

Anthony’s fingers flexed on her thigh. “Say that again.”

She leaned in until their noses brushed. “I’m yours.”

He kissed her—sweet and slow, deepening just enough to make her toes curl. She felt his hands move, one sliding to her lower back, the other to the side of her neck, his thumb gently stroking her pulse point. Her skin buzzed with every small touch. When he pulled back, his voice was hoarse.

“Let’s stay like this forever.”

She laughed. “In this chair? That’ll get uncomfortable.”

“We’ll rotate. You on my lap, me on yours. Problem solved.”

They stayed there for another half hour, talking about everything and nothing—favorite childhood books, weird dreams, their most irrational fears. Lila confessed she used to be scared of getting too close to people because it always felt like they’d leave.

Anthony held her tighter. “I’m not going anywhere, angel.”

Eventually, they checked out with a small stack of books and walked hand-in-hand to a nearby café for pastries and lattes. The sun was dipping low by the time they got back to her house, arms full of stories, hearts a little fuller than before.

As Lila curled up later that night under her covers, she thought about how perfect the day had been. There hadn’t been anything dramatic or wild—just books and kisses and the softest kind of love. The kind that built roots.

The kind that felt real.