Will

The last few readers, rustling pages and adjusting the bags on their shoulders, slowly drifted toward the exit. You scanned the reading room, mentally mapping out your cleaning plan.

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

Your feet carried you toward him of their own accord. You moved as if in a dream, afraid to startle the moment away. There he was, right beside you. You looked at his lips, slightly parted in a steady rhythm of breath. All the words you had prepared for years vanished.

Desire proved stronger than reason. You wanted to know, just once in your life, what it felt like to touch him. Even if only with the edge of your lips.

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

Abruptly pulling away, your heart hammering, you turned and hurried toward your bag. You needed to get a grip on yourself, and then, calmly and professionally, approach the sleeping visitor and ask him to leave, pretending that you were strangers.

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

"Where do you think you're going, you pervert?" a low voice sounded behind you, slightly husky from sleep, but so familiar.