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I remember the way the spine of that first edition cracked, a sound like a dry branch snapping under the weight of August humidity.
There’s a specific kind of silence in a bookstore at midnight, a density of unread words that feels like a physical weight against your skin.
You’re pressing me back against the mahogany shelving, and for a second, I’m terrified the first editions won't be the only things bruised tonight.
His thumb was tracing the ridge of my hip bone like he was following a contour line on a map he'd memorized.
!["You Know What Happens to Books That Stay Unopened"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"you-know-what-happens-to-books-that-stay-unopened"-471-cover-1775998167964.jpg)
The weight of the silence in the shop was like a reduction sauce—thick, concentrated, and smelling faintly of things that had simmered too long.