“Then we’ll start with simple ones,” I say, a little too quickly. I bite the inside of my cheek. “If you had an afternoon to do what you please, what would you do?”
He tilts his head, thinking, before answering softly. “I guess I would ride out to a quiet spot and read.”
I blink at him, surprised. “Really?”
He nods. “I wasn’t very good at school. Never liked numbers, and writing came slowly. But my parents…they made sure I could read well. Said the Good Book was enough to carry a man through life. They were right, I think. But once I learned to read, I couldn’t stop. I’ll read anything I can get my hands on. The words—they keep me company.”
Something warm stirs in my chest at the confession. “I know that feeling. Books have always been my escape.” My eyes flit to the shelves in the adjoining library. “Wait here a moment.”
I cross into the library and return with a copy ofFirst Loveby Ivan Turgenev. The cover is faded, the spine loose from years of handling. Hugging it to my chest, I sit again and slide it across the small wicker table toward him.
“This is one of my favorites,” I say. “Have you read it?”
He nods and I smile, asking, “Would you read me a passage? Just…whichever one you like.”
He looks startled. “You want me to read aloud?”
I nod. “Yes. Please.”
He hesitates, then opens the book with careful hands, turning the pages until his thumb stills. He clears his throat, the sound low and warm. “This part here…when the narrator says he loved her as only young hearts can love, with devotion that demands nothing in return. He says that for him, her presence was enough, even if he could never truly claim her.”
And then he begins to read.
His voice is steady, deep, carrying the words with reverence. I try to listen, I really do, but my attention betrays me. My eyes fix on the curve of his mouth as it shapes each syllable, the way his lips soften around the vowels, the flicker of a smile when he glances up at me, embarrassed. His lashes are long, catching the sunlight when he blinks, and his shoulders shift with every breath, strong and sure.
He doesn’t rush. He gives the words room, letting them land with weight, as if he understands their tenderness. And in that moment, I feel myself unraveling—caught not in Turgenev’s prose, but in the man across from me, reading as though each word belongs to us alone.
My throat tightens. I grip the folds of my skirt in my lap, forcing myself to breathe evenly, so he doesn’t see how undone I am. But God help me, I’ve never wanted to kiss someone so badly in my life.
He pauses, eyes flicking up, searching mine. “Do you want me to keep going?” he asks, quiet, almost shy.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Please.”
Because if he keeps reading, I can keep pretending it’s the book that’s making my heart race, and not him.
Marcel’s voice fills the sunroom. The words roll from him with such quiet conviction that I almost forget where I am. Butthen my gaze slips, again and again, to his mouth. To the way his lips move around each word as though he’s savoring them.
I can’t sit still anymore. My hand drifts across the wicker table, inch by inch, until my fingers hover just above the back of his. For a moment, I freeze—my pulse roaring so loudly I’m certain he must hear it.
And then, with a courage I don’t recognize as my own, I let my fingertips brush his hand.
He falters mid-sentence. The words hang suspended between us as his eyes flick down, focusing on the place where I’ve touched him.
“Clara,” he murmurs, my name roughened by restraint.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper. “Keep reading.”
His breath skips, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he shifts closer, closing the space between us as his thumb grazes the edge of my hand. The smallest touch, yet it sets my skin aflame.
He looks back at the page, though his voice is unsteady now, thick with more than the weight of the story. “The narrator speaks of how helplessly he adored her…how even the smallest glance or passing word from her could undo him. He says her presence alone was enough, even if she never truly belonged to him.”
The words are tender, aching, but it isn’t Turgenev that makes my stomach twist with heat. It’s Marcel. The way his voice carries the ache like it’s his own, how his gaze lingers too long, how his shoulders draw tight as though the act of reading is unearthing feelings he can’t disguise.
I drink in every detail—the curl slipping onto his forehead, the rise and fall of his chest, the smile tugging at his lips when he realizes what this moment is doing to me.
I’m not supposed to feel this. I’m not supposed to want this. And yet, with every syllable he speaks, every inch that closesbetween our hands, I fall further into the truth I’ve been trying so hard to deny.
By the time he finishes the passage, my hand is fully beneath his, his palm warm and solid over mine. The book slips slightly in his other hand, forgotten for a moment as silence blooms.
