“That,” I murmured, flexing my toes, “was worth the blisters.”
He glanced down at my feet with a small crease between his brows. “You didn’t mention discomfort.”
“Because it was worth it.”
He studied me for a moment like that answer meant something more than it should.
Then he said, casually, “There is one more thing.”
I blinked at him.
“You already did too much.”
He gathered the books in one arm and gestured toward the staircase.
“Come.”
I stared at the stairs and hesitated ever so slightly.
He moved closer, offering his hand like he had earlier tonight.
“Trust me.”
I swallowed down the lump in my throat and took his hand.
He walked slowly beside me as we climbed, mindful of my knee without making a show of it. The hallway upstairs wasdimly lit, sconces casting soft pools of light along the walls. The air felt stiller up here.
He didn’t stop at the guest rooms. He led me all the way down the hall to a door at the back. The library, the room I’d been told not to touch except to dust since I got here.
He opened it. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the far wall, overlooking the river. Even in the dark, the water glimmered faintly beneath the moonlight. Sheer curtains framed the glass, soft and gauzy, moving slightly with the night air.
But it’s the shelves that stole my breath.
Dark wood shelves rose from floor to ceiling along three walls, filled with carefully arranged volumes. Hardcovers and paperbacks, leather-bound classics and modern releases. Even a rolling ladder tucked neatly along the side to complete the dream library aesthetics. But that was nothing new. Those had always been here, but there was something new.
A plush reading chair now sat near the windows, with a small table and a brass lamp beside it. A thick rug softened the floor. Next to it was an entirely empty bookshelf.
I stepped inside slowly.
“What’s this?” I whispered.
“I wanted to give you your own space for all the books you like to read.”
I turned in a slow circle, taking it in. This was more than a room full of books. He had created a space for me in his house, as if I wasn’t just staying here for six months. Like maybe, just maybe, he saw this as permanent, too.
“You want my books here,” I said softly.
“Yes.”
I walked to the empty shelves slowly, brushing my fingers along the smooth wood. I imagined my paperbacks lined there. From my dog-eared favorites to the ones I’d read three timesand still cried over, all here in this beautiful room instead of a box shoved under the bed in my van.
“You built space for me,” I murmured.
He stepped closer behind me, not touching, just there.
My chest ached in a way that somehow felt both fragile and strong at the same time. I turned to face him. The man who ordered me a golden dress. Who sat through a fortune teller. Who bought me as many books as I could carry. Who now stood in front of a library and offered me a space of my own, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“I don’t know what to say.”
