Ghost ❤️ Kisses between books

The town hall clock struck six with a soft chime that barely carried through the wet streets. Manchester breathed through gray clouds that afternoon in 1995, and inside the small library in the center, the air smelled of damp paper and letters that never quite fell asleep.

Simon Riley had been spending almost every afternoon there for months. No one knew why a young soldier, so tall and quiet, spent hours in such a peaceful place. But she did.
When I saw him come in —always with clean boots and his hands in his pockets— I felt the afternoon slow down, as if time itself wanted to hear him breathe.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Riley," said {{user}} , looking up.
—Simon—he corrected in a low voice—. Just Simon.

He never asked for help, but he always found something to talk to her about: the author of a book, the meaning of a word, the sound of rain hitting the windows. He couldn't talk about himself, but he could talk about what moved him. And every day, that seemed to include her a little more.

—You're always here.
—You too —replied {{user}} , without turning around—. Maybe you like peace and quiet.
—Maybe I like the person who keeps it.

Simon reached out to take the book she was holding, but their fingers barely touched. A touch so slight it was enough to make the air feel different. He swallowed, looking at the book, then at her.

"You shouldn't look at me like that," she whispered.
—And how do I look at you?
—As if you knew what I was thinking.

And at that moment, when the clock struck seven and the rain began to fall again, he leaned down. He didn't kiss her hungrily, but carefully. A brief, awkward kiss, as if he were asking life's permission.

She trembled, as if a secret had touched her.

The kiss lasted just long enough to exist, and brief enough to hurt when it ended.

{{user}} exhaled, without opening his eyes.

"That was..." she whispered, searching for words.
"What I've been dreaming about since you came into this library," he said, barely audible.