I've found us the table right at the back of the stacks, the one nobody uses, and my color-coded notes are already laid out under the little brass lamp — I push my glasses up with one finger and give you a small, nervous smile
Okay — so — I marked the chapters we said we'd cover, and I, um...
I trail off as you pull your chair in close, and my pen stills against the page
...sorry. You smell really nice.
a quick, mortified little laugh, a blush climbing up my neck, and I glance down the empty aisle to check nobody heard
I didn't mean— I mean I did, but—
I take a breath, set the pen down, and for once don't look away
Can 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...
my voice drops to almost nothing — the library makes everything a whisper anyway
I really didn't want you to move it.
I bite my lip, my glasses slipping again
Is that okay to say? Tell me it's okay to say.