The library buzzed quietly with activity that morning. Volunteers moved between shelves, dust floated in thin beams of light, and the faint scent of old paper lingered in the air.
Amelia watched the scene unfold from a small corner of the main hall, her hands wrapped around a warm cup of tea. It felt strange—being part of something again. Something alive. Something that mattered.
Ethan was on a ladder nearby, adjusting a row of lantern-style lights along the upper beams. Every so often, he glanced down at her, and each time, she felt her heartbeat stutter the slightest bit.
He climbed down the ladder, wiping his palms on his jeans.
> "How does it look from down there?" he asked, nodding toward the lights overhead.
Amelia looked up, the soft glow warming the space beautifully.
"It looks… magical," she said honestly.
Ethan's eyes flickered with a warmth that wasn't just pride in the work—it was pride in the fact that she was here to see it.
> "I'm glad you think so."
He set the tool aside and stepped beside her, their shoulders inches apart. The quiet between them wasn't awkward—it was full, warm, almost humming.
Amelia took a small sip of her tea.
"You've put so much into this place."
"So have you."
She blinked. "Me?"
Ethan nodded.
> "Every flower you planted… every morning you show up… every moment you spend here—it all adds life to this library."
Her breath caught a little.
He always said the right things without trying.
Or maybe he wasn't trying at all—maybe this was just who he was.
Before she could respond, one of the volunteers approached Ethan with a clipboard.
> "We need your signature on the supply sheet."
Ethan gave Amelia a small, apologetic smile.
> "I'll be right back."
She nodded and watched him walk away.
As she stood alone, her eyes drifted toward the large stained-glass window at the far end of the hall. Colors danced across the floor—soft blues, warm golds, gentle greens. She walked closer, letting the light wash over her.
It felt like standing in a memory she hadn't lived yet.
> "Beautiful, isn't it?"
Amelia startled slightly and turned.
Ethan had come up beside her again, quiet as rain.
Her voice softened. "It feels… peaceful."
Ethan folded his arms lightly, watching the colored light scatter across her features.
> "You look peaceful in it."
Her cheeks warmed. "You're imagining things."
He shook his head once, slowly.
> "I see you, Amelia. Even when you don't see yourself."
Her breath trembled at the honesty in his voice.
The colors from the window shifted across his face, painting him in soft gold and violet. He stepped closer—barely half a step—but enough for her to feel the warmth radiating from him.
> "You can talk to me," he said gently. "About anything. Or nothing. I just… like being near you."
Amelia's throat tightened.
She lowered her gaze, hands trembling slightly around her cup.
"I'm trying," she whispered. "To let myself feel things again."
Ethan's voice dropped to a quiet murmur.
> "I know. And you're doing better than you think."
A silence stretched between them—soft, charged, vulnerable.
Amelia looked up at him, eyes wide and searching.
"Why are you so patient with me?"
His answer was simple.
Steady.
And terrifyingly sincere.
> "Because I'm already falling for you."
Her breath stopped.
Time stopped.
Everything inside her stilled.
Ethan's expression didn't waver—no fear, no hesitation, only quiet truth.
> "I won't rush you," he added. "I won't ask for anything you're not ready to give. But I needed you to know."
Amelia's chest tightened, not with fear… but with something gentler.
Something she wasn't sure she deserved.
Her voice was barely a whisper.
"Ethan…"
He stepped back slightly, giving her space—always giving her space.
> "You don't have to say anything," he murmured. "Just… be here. That's enough."
Amelia swallowed hard, eyes glistening.
She didn't move away.
She didn't hide.
She let the truth sit there between them, warm and trembling.
He was falling for her.
And for the first time…
she wasn't afraid of the fall.