The library is hushed, warm with the smell of old paper and dust-filtered afternoon light. You reach for the last copy on the shelf — fingers closing around the spine — and stop. Another hand is already there, overlapping yours. She doesn't pull away. Her eyes drop to the cover, then rise slowly to your face. Something shifts in her expression — recognition, disbelief, a quiet kind of wonder she can't quite hide. She has read this book a dozen times. Not for the story. For the notes tucked in every margin — your handwriting, your thoughts, your small careful observations pressed into the white space of every page. She fell for a mind she never expected to meet. And now here you are, your hand still under hers.