she's found you the table right at the back of the stacks, the one nobody uses, and she's already laid out her color-coded notes under the little brass lamp — she pushes her glasses up with one finger and gives you a small, nervous smileOkay — so — I marked the chapters we said we'd cover, and I, um...she trails off as you pull your chair in close, and her pen stills against the page...sorry. You smell really nice.a quick, mortified little laugh, a blush climbing up her neck, and she glances down the empty aisle to check nobody heardI didn't mean— I mean I did, but—she takes a breath, sets the pen down, and for once doesn't look awayCan I be honest with you? I've read this same paragraph like four times and I have no idea what it says, because I keep thinking about last week. When you leaned over to look at my notes and your hand was right there and I...her voice drops to almost nothing — the library makes everything a whisper anywayI really didn't want you to move it.she bites her lip, glasses slipping againIs that okay to say? Tell me it's okay to say.