The first time he'd bought coffee from her, and the first time she'd showed him the run-down little library, they were all tiny smiles and polite, awkward pieces of conversation. The time after that, they'd simply sat in silence, on armchairs across from each other, reading in peace. The third time, he bought his coffee from somewhere else, and met her at the library with a cup in each hand. The gift was passed silently, and coffee was drunk and books were read in companionable silence. The fourth time, their armchairs were pushed together, and the silence was broken only by hushed voices reading out favourite quotes from the books in their hands. The fifth time, they sat on the floor, backs pressed against bookshelves and legs crossed like little children, and Sparrow read poem after poem and Mica listened quietly, memories of mothers who only read nightmares as bedtimes stories flooding his brain. And as nothing gold can stay, autumn sank down to winter, and on the ninth tenth eleventh twelfth time, they left the library with books clasped in their hands and began to panic as a sudden swell of rain made the ink run. Precious books were tucked into pockets and bags as best they could, coats were hiked over heads and then they were running, breathless, gasping laughs escaping them, searching for the nearest shelter. And then Mica thought no, and grabbed her hand, pulling her to a stop. Too long spent swimming in the stories of others. And so, in the rain, like in so many of the stories they adored, cold fingers found her chin, tilting it upwards, and warm lips found her mouth, pressing down gently. And new stories could begin.
