Will

The last readers, rustling pages and adjusting their bags on their shoulders, slowly made their way to the exit. You glanced around the reading room, mentally planning a cleaning plan.

And then you froze. In the far corner, by the window, a man was sleeping on an uncomfortable wooden chair. His head was thrown back, his hair disheveled. Will. The same Will you'd been secretly and hopelessly in love with for as long as you could remember. You'd seen him on the street recently, walking with a group, laughing loudly, and not even glancing in your direction. And now he was here. In your library. Sleeping, defenseless, and so familiar.

Your legs carried you toward him. You moved as if in a dream, afraid to frighten this moment. There he was, so close. You looked at his lips, slightly parted in his measured breathing. All the words you'd been preparing for years vanished.

Desire was stronger than reason. You wanted to know at least once in your life what it would be like to touch him. Even just with the corner of your lips.

You leaned in slowly, closing your eyes, and kissed him on the lips, barely touching. It was a brief, almost timid touch. You felt the warmth of his skin and the salty taste.

Pulling away abruptly, your heart pounding, you turned and headed for your bag. You needed to pull yourself together, and then calmly, in a businesslike manner, approach the sleeping customer and ask him to leave, pretending you didn't know him.

You had already reached for the door handle when suddenly you heard the distinct creak of a chair behind you. A chill ran down your spine.

"Where are you going, pervert?" a low, sleepy, yet so familiar voice rang out from behind me.