Page 17 of The Words of Us

I squeeze her hand, feeling a swell of warmth that starts in my chest and spreads through my whole body. “Yeah,” I whisper, my smile widening. “It really does.”

“But”—her voice is filled with an unexpected seriousness, and I feel my heart stop a second, a crash of reality feeling imminent—“it is seriously lacking in coffee.”

And she kisses me before I can let out the breath I am holding.

The morning stretches longer than I expect, but I don’t mind. Every second with Sasha feels like it’s bending time, making it feel richer, fuller, like it’s worth more. But now, reality is starting to seep back in. The sun is rising higher, casting soft, golden light through the windows, and the city outside is coming to life. Sasha glances at her phone, her expression softening with a hint of reluctance. It’s a look I know all too well; the one that says, “I’d stay if I could.” She has things to do, a life beyond this morning, and I feel the inevitable pull of time tugging at the edges of our little cocoon.

She catches my eye, and I see the same bittersweet mix of contentment and hesitation reflecting back at me. We’ve spent hours together—talking, laughing, getting lost in each other—and yet it feels like not nearly enough. She’s still holding a book she picked up earlier, her fingers tracing the spineabsentmindedly as she smiles at me, and the sight of it makes my chest tighten with a strange, unexpected ache.

“I should probably get going,” Sasha says softly, her voice tinged with the faintest trace of regret. “I’ve got a shift at the wing bar later, and I should probably try to look somewhat presentable.”

I nod, trying to muster a smile that doesn’t feel like goodbye. “Of course. And I’ve got…well, the bookstore, obviously.” I gesture vaguely toward the shelves and the half-finished coffee cups on the counter, the quiet space that’s suddenly starting to feel a little too empty.

She moves closer, setting the book back on the shelf, and it takes all my willpower not to reach out and pull her back into me. Her presence feels so natural here, like she’s always been a part of this place, and the thought of her leaving now feels like waking up from a dream I’m not ready to let go of.

“Last night was…” Her voice trails off as she searches for the right words. She shakes her head, a small, almost shy smile breaking through. “Well, you know.”

I laugh softly, nodding as I lean against the counter, trying to keep my composure. “Yeah. I know.”

There’s a pause, a soft, lingering silence where neither of us seems to want to move. I watch her, taking in every little detail: the way her hair falls casually over her shoulder, the curve of her smile, the light in her eyes that still feels like it’s holding on to me. I don’t want this to be the last time I see that look, the last time I feel this warmth that’s been wrapping itself around my heart all morning.

But then Sasha reaches out, her fingers brushing mine in a touch so gentle it almost breaks me. “This isn’t the end of this, right?” she asks, her voice soft but certain, like she’s already decided the answer. “I mean, I’d like to see you again. Soon.”

There’s a flutter in my chest, a rush of something I haven’t felt in a long time: hope. I nod, squeezing her hand just a little tighter. “Yeah. I’d like that too.”

She smiles, and it’s like the sun coming up all over again. I watch as she turns toward the door, her steps slow and reluctant, like she’s feeling the same pull I am. I want to say something, to find the perfect words to capture everything that’s buzzing inside me, but they all feel too big for this quiet morning moment. So I let her go, my eyes following her as she steps out onto the sidewalk, the bell above the door chiming softly behind her.

The door closes, and suddenly, it’s just me and the bookstore. The quiet is different now, filled with the echo of her laughter, the memory of her touch, and the lingering warmth of the hours we spent wrapped up in each other. I run my fingers over the counter where she stood, tracing the spot where her hand had rested, and I can still feel the faint, comforting imprint of her presence.

I move through the bookstore, straightening a few books that are still slightly out of place, and I can’t help but smile. It’s a small thing, this rearranging of shelves, but it feels like putting something back together that’s been waiting to be whole. The space feels more alive than it ever has, like it’s holding onto the energy Sasha brought with her, and I want more of it—more of her, more of this feeling that’s still humming in my veins.

I take a deep breath, letting the air settle in my lungs, and as I turn back to the front of the store, I feel a flicker of excitement, the kind that only comes when something new is beginning. This morning wasn’t just a moment; it was a promise, one that whispers quietly between us, even now that she’s gone.

I don’t know what comes next, but for once, I’m not afraid of the unknown. I’m ready to see where this takes us, ready to openup to the possibility of something real. And as I flip the sign on the door to “Open,” I can’t help but smile.

10

SASHA

The walk back to my apartment is a blur, the morning light just starting to filter through the buildings and paint everything in a soft, golden hue. I’m still riding the high of last night, of Evie’s touch, her warmth, the way we fit together like something inevitable. Every step feels lighter, and I’m grinning like an idiot, replaying every kiss, every stolen moment between the shelves.

I can’t remember the last time I felt this good, this…alive. But as I turn the corner to my building, reality nudges back in, reminding me of the world beyond the quiet, intimate bubble of Evie’s bookstore. And there, leaning casually against the entrance, is Glass, his lanky frame draped in one of his usual oversized sweaters, a coffee cup in one hand and a knowing smirk already forming on his lips.

He looks up as I approach, and his smile widens. “Well, well, well,” he drawls, raising the coffee in a mock toast. “If it isn’t my wayward friend, fresh from a night of…not sleeping in her own bed.”

I roll my eyes, trying to keep my cool, but there’s no point pretending I’m not totally caught. “Good morning to you too,Sherlock,” I shoot back, reaching out to swipe the coffee from his hand. I take a sip, savoring the familiar bitterness, and then glance at him with mock annoyance. “What are you doing lurking around my building this early?”

Glass chuckles, watching me with an expression that’s far too amused for this time of day. “Oh, you know, just waiting to catch a glimpse of my favorite runaway poet. And look at that, I get more than I bargained for.” He gestures to me, his eyes sweeping over my rumpled clothes and barely tamed mess of my hair, and I know I must look like someone who didn’t plan to spend the night out.

I shake my head, unable to keep the grin off my face. “I’m not a runaway.”

Glass arches an eyebrow, the smirk still firmly in place. “Really? Because from where I’m standing, you look like someone who’s run straight into trouble. Or something like it.”

I laugh, pushing past him toward the entrance, but Glass follows, still eyeing me with that infuriatingly perceptive look. He’s been my best friend for years, long enough to know when something’s different, when I’m hiding something. And right now, I’m not sure I want to hide this. Not from him.

“You’re impossible, you know that?” I say, nudging the door open and holding it for him. He steps inside, and we both start up the stairs, his coffee still clutched in my hand.

“It’s part of my charm,” Glass replies, his voice light but probing. “So, are you going to tell me where you’ve been, or should I just start guessing?”

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