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"That was months ago,” she whispers.

“I know."

"You've been thinking about me for a month?” She asks.

"I've been thinking about you, dreaming about you, and trying to figure out how to get close to you without scaring you away." I reach up and trace the edge of her mask with one finger, and she shivers at the contact. "You have no idea what you do to me."

"What do I do to you?" She asks, but she’s not teasing me. It’s as if she has no idea the power she has on me.

"You make me want to be someone who deserves you. You make me want to learn how to have fun, how to be spontaneous, how to live instead of just existing. You bring out this person I never knew was inside me."

Her scent spikes with something that might be arousal, and I have to fight to keep my own response under control.

"Felix..." Her voice is barely a whisper.

"You make me want to eat dessert for no reason and have philosophical discussions about chocolate and spend entire evenings in libraries just because they make you happy." I'm still tracing the edge of her mask, and her breathing has become shallow and rapid. "You make me want to be the kind of man who knows how to make you smile."

"You already make me smile,” she purrs as if I’m sending her into a trance.

“I want to make you laugh every day. I want to be the person you trust with your dreams and your fears and your terrible jokes about library science."

"They're not terrible jokes."

"They're awful jokes," I say with a grin. "And I want to hear every single one of them."

She places her palm flat against my chest, right over my heart, and the contact sends electricity shooting through my entire nervous system.

"I can feel how fast your heart is beating," she whispers.

"That's what you do to me. That's what you've always done to me."

"I don't understand how this is happening so fast," she says, but she doesn't move her hand. "I don't understand how you can make me feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."

"Maybe you are."

"This is crazy. We work in the same town, but I barely know anything about your life outside of architectural plans and building permits,” she admits.

"Then ask me. Ask me anything you want to know."

"What do you do for fun?" She asks.

I laugh, and it's probably the most honest sound I've made all evening. "Before tonight? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I work, I sleep, I work some more. I haven't had fun since god, I can't even remember."

"That's sad."

“Thanks!” I chuckle. “I didn't think it was sad until I met you. Now I realize I've been sleepwalking through my life, waiting for someone to wake me up."

Her scent becomes richer, more complex, and I can see her pupils dilating as she processes what I'm saying.

"And you think I woke you up?"

"Belle, you don't wake me up. You set me on fire. You make me want to throw away my schedule and just exist in moments like this."

"What kind of moments?"

"Moments where we're standing in a palace library surrounded by thousands of love stories, and I'm thinking about how none of them could possibly be better than this. Moments where you're looking at me like I might be someone worth knowing, and I'm trying to figure out how to be worthy of that look."

She's quiet for a long moment, her hand still pressed against my chest, her scent growing stronger and more intoxicating with every breath.