“Alibrary, you say?” Luke replies, looking me over with a mischievous grin, and I can tell I’m doomed. Now that he knows it exists, he will never let it go until he sees it, which leaves me no choice but to show it to him. God damn it.
But Irefuseto show it to him while he’s got my mother on the phone acting like a parrot on his shoulder, just waiting to throw out unwanted commentary. I have enough common sense to know that no scenario involving her with this will go well for me. So, after averydramatic goodbye on her part, complete with pouting at being left out of all the fun, they hang up. I get a text from her immediately afterward in all caps that says,CALL ME LATER, and I groan.
My anxiety spikes when I think about taking Luke to the library. Not many people know of its existence, let alone have been lucky enough to witness it. I like to say it’s out of an abundance of self-preservation—that I keep it to myself to avoid unwanted judgment from people who won’t understand—but it’s more than that. It’s my safe space, a personal retreat from the world where I can escape when things get tough. Inviting someone into that place comes with a whole lot of trust and intimacy that, as a rule, I’ve had very little of with most people.
Luke must be able to sense my hesitance because he comes closer and wraps his arms around my neck, running a hand through my hair. I sigh with his touch.
“If you’d rather we don’t, then let’s not,” he nudges. His fingers send tingles down my spine, and suddenly, I’m having a hard time remembering what I’m so nervous about. “I would love tosee your library, but only if you want me to. I don’t want you to feel pressured.”
Somehow, hearing the offer eases the anxiety in my chest, further adding to my resolve that Luke is someone I can trust with this.
So, I take him up the stairs to the attic, which houses my soul, and I step back as he crosses the threshold of the most cherished room in my house. The look on his face doesn’t disappoint as he takes it all in, his jaw dropping in awe.
The attic is quite large, covering the whole floor plan of the house below, and I spent a good amount of time and money turning it into the library of my dreams when I bought the place. The slanted ceilings where the wall meets the roof have bookshelves built underneath them, so every available corner is used efficiently. Rows of tall shelves stand back-to-back in the middle of the room to fully utilize the space. They’re all filled to the brim, with the overfill stacked in neat piles on the floor when I ran out of room.
What makes it more than just a place to store books are the personal touches I’ve added throughout the years that I’m most protective of. There are plush rugs on the floor that tie it all together, and a cozy reading nook of lush pillows and blankets by the lone window above the garage, where I’ve definitely fallen asleep on more than one occasion. String lights hang from the ceiling, adding a bit of magic to the space, making it feel more like a place of fantasy. A few plants sit on the windowsill, where they get the most light, and a slew of scented candles make the room smell divine.
It’s in these little details that I fear the most judgment, even though I know I shouldn’t. But right now, Luke is looking at them with such childlike wonder that my heart soars.
“Holy fucking shit, Ethan,” he murmurs as he walks among the various shelves, reaching out to delicately touch the spinesof the different titles with awe. “When your mom said you had a library, I wasn’t expectingthis. How many books are there?”
“The last time I counted, it was just shy of four thousand,” I answer sheepishly, idly picking at a loose thread on my sweatshirt.
Luke’s eyes sweep across the room to meet mine, and I feel my face flushing. Why does it feel like my heart is suddenly on the chopping block?
“Have you read them all?” he asks, flabbergasted.
“Most of them.”
Luke gapes at me in disbelief. “I knew you liked to read, but this is… This is something else.” He must see the uncertainty on my face because he quickly shakes his head and smiles. “No, no. Don’t get me wrong. This isamazing. I just… Why do you have everything tucked up here instead of on display downstairs? I thought bookish people were usually proud to show off their hoard.”
I shrug slightly, biting my lower lip. “It’s easier this way.”
“What do you mean?” Luke cocks his head to the side.
“It stops the jokes, mostly. People can’t tease me for it if they don’t know it exists.”
Luke’s face softens, and his expression tells me he sadly understands.
“You shouldn’t have to hide what you love.” He shakes his head. “Anyone who jokes about your passions is a shit friend if you ask me. This is a phenomenal collection. You should be proud to showcase it.”
“Yeah, well. It probably wouldn’t fit downstairs anymore, anyway.” I shrug. “I’m running out of room up here as it is.”
“I can see that.” Luke gives me a sidelong glance, and I can tell he’s got more he’d like to say, but he’s holding his tongue for now.
He goes back to perusing the shelves, studying the various covers with interest.
“You must have spent years assembling this,” he muses, randomly picking up a book and skimming the back cover. “How do you have it organized?”
“Genre, then by author,” I say. “There’s classic literature in that corner, horror to your left. Fantasy, historical fiction, science fiction….”
Luke nods, impressed. But then he stops at one particular shelf, and the corner of his mouth twists into a sly grin. My heart drops as I realize what he’s looking at—the romance novels. Fucking hell.
“Well, well…” Luke chuckles, facing me with a devilish grin. “Now I understand.Thisis where it comes from.”
“What?” I swallow hard, trying to act like I don’t know exactly what he’s looking at.
“Your preferences,” he says, his voice dropping a register, sending a chill down my spine. He folds his arms across his chest and leans against the bookshelf in a positively feline stance, looking me up and down with a new fire in his eye, covetous in its own right. I swallow hard. “You’re a hopelessromantic.”
