He gently presses the spine of the book he’s reading against my lips. “You’re babbling, Thorne.”

We’re so close I can feel the heat from his skin, and smell the soap from his hair, and laundry detergent—the latter of which I’m extremely happy about. At least he isn’t wearing the same clothes for a week straight anymore.

And I can’t remember when he stopped. Or when he began washing his hair again. Or when he started coming in to keep me company while I worked. Was it just in the last week? Or longer?

It seemed so natural at the time, I hadn’t thought anything of it.

But now, with him so close, reminding me that I babble when I’m nervous, I start to wonder—at what point did he realize I babble when I’m nervous? When did I tell him? Did I ever? Sometime in the last few weeks, he started paying attention.

I’ve already read about romance. About what it feels like to fall in love. I had always thought I would linger on his eyelashes or his soft cornflower eyes or his smooth pale skin, his halo of golden hair, but—

All of the books are wrong.

It misses the space between. The strange, thick air that fills with electricity as Vance leans closer. My skin tingles as he swipes a piece of hair behind my ear, his fingertips brushing against my cheek, and my breath catches in my throat. In all the books I’ve read, the author always described the physicality—the heat of their skin and the freckle on the left side of their lip and the way their eyebrows bunch together as they lean in, slowly, questioningly—but never the soft feeling of…just being.

Where I feel safe.

Where I don’t have to be anyone amazing, where I don’t have to fit into some stupid mold, where I’m not the girl with the dead mom, or the girl with the hot dad, or the girl who was asked to Homecoming by the most popular boy in school.

It’s just a space, small and warm, that fits for Rosie Thorne.

This is unimaginable.

My heart jumps like the Prospero into hyperspace because I want to—because I need to—

“Amara up,” I whisper.

“Wha—” he begins to ask, but the moment he opens his mouth I take his face in my hands and pull his lips down to mine and kiss him. He makes a surprised noise against my mouth, tense and rigid. I quickly realize I have no idea what I’m doing, and let go of him.

My face turns ten shades of red. He stares at me, eyes wide, still bent toward me like a tree in a hurricane.

“I—I—I am so sorry.” I fumble, beginning to pull away, but his fingers snag into my jeans pocket to stop me. My stomach flips. I don’t know if it’s from butterflies, or if I’m about to be sick. “I—I’ve never kissed anyone before. It was bad, wasn’t it? It was so bad, and you’ve kissed so many people, and God I am so mortified and—”

“Gentler, Thorne,” he says tenderly, a smile tugging at the edge of his lips, and he presses his soft mouth against mine.

My heart kicks against my rib cage like a wild horse. My back presses against the bookcase, the spines of Starfield novels flat against me, stories of Sond and Carmindor and Amara, and I forget about all of them. His teeth graze my lips, nibbling, toying. I don’t know what to do with my hands—they migrate from his chest to his neck to the sides of his face, and then curling deep into his platinum hair. His one hand stays in the pocket of my jeans, the other curling around the back of my waist, anchoring me, his thumb slipping between the hem of my shirt and the edge of my jeans, brushing against my skin so lightly that goose bumps ripple up my body.

His mouth migrates down my neck, and he plants a kiss where I know my birthmark is, lovingly, tenderly, and I shiver.

* * *

—

  “YOU NEED TO ASK VANCE to go with you to Homecoming. I mean, imagine! You! Homecoming with the Vance Reigns! With General Sond! And your father’s going to be there as a chaperone!” Annie presses her hands together in a prayer and sighs. “Blessed be to the gods of hot people everywhere, we will have truly been graced with an abundance of hotness this Homecoming season if it comes to pass.”

“You need an intervention.” I shake my head, searching through the racks of Goodwill dresses for something that isn’t stained or thirty years old. I don’t have the money to buy a new Homecoming dress—since I stopped working at the grocery store, I’ve barely had any money to spare. I take out a sparkly green dress and hold it up to me. Green really isn’t my color. I frown, putting it back.

“And besides,” I add, “I don’t know if he’ll even say yes, yet.”

“If he says no, he’s stupid—also, we’ll be your date,” Annie replies, and fist-bumps Quinn.

“If I knew anyone with a sewing machine, I would say you could repurpose one of my old dresses,” Quinn says, taking a bedazzled ’90s monstrosity off the rack, and quickly putting it back. “I think my back’s too wide for you to fit into any of my clothes without some alteration.”

“I’m sure I can find something,” I reply. “Thank you, though.”

Annie pulls out a pink dress with puffy sleeves. “You can reenact Sixteen Candles.”

“How about let’s not—oh.” I spot a dress at the very end of the row and pull it out. I fit it against me and turn to my friends. “What do you think?”

Quinn and Annie glance over and pause. But then Annie smiles. Quinn says, “Oh yeah, I think that’s the one.”

“Bingo,” Annie agrees.

* * *

—

  FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS AFTER SCHOOL, in between cataloging each last book in its proper place, he teaches me how to explore. I become lost in the ebb and flow of his lips, and mine, and then his again, his tongue playing against mine, dancing. He tastes like the chocolate chip cookies Mr. Rodriguez had on the counter when I walked in, sweet and satisfying, and oh my stars I am lost.

Is this what Amara felt when she kissed Carmindor for the first time? Or is this more like the times she kissed Sond in Mom’s favorite books? Like a newfound star burning so bright, ripping through the darkness like a lightsaber?

He kisses so meticulously, with the certain sort of patience only strategy can provide, the kisses tender, but the edges sharp. Vance is not Sond, but I daresay he kisses like him, and every place his lips touch—my mouth, my nose, my cheek, my neck—lights up like a star in a constellation of us.

And suddenly, we’re at the final book, and it’s just irony that it’s the last Starfield novel ever written, before they discontinued the series. The Last Carmindor.

I turn to Vance. “Want to do the honors?”

He pushes the book back to me. “All yours.”

So I reach up and slide the last book into place at the end of the shelf. Like the puzzle piece clicking into place, the library is complete. “Well, that was an adventure,” I whisper, my voice cracking a little at the edges. Because now it’s over, my job is done, and just like that—

Vance took my hand and squeezed it tightly. “It’s not over yet.”

THE LIBRARY IS COMPLETE.

Yesterday, when I took Rosie’s hand and told her the adventure wasn’t over yet, I meant every word. I would never have dreamed of saying something so corny a year ago—even a month ago—but maybe people can change.

Maybe I can change.

I want to.

Today is October 11.

My birthday. It was also supposed to be the last day in this nowhere town, but now I…think I can last another week, you know? Or two. I mean—it really isn’t that terrible. Perhaps it never was.

After a week of playing phone tag with Natalia, I finally catch her between meetings. “Vance, it’s a pleasant surprise,” she greets me in her sharp, gravelly voice. “How’s the house doing?”

“You undersell it every time you call it a house—it’s a castle.”

She laughs. “Ah, my ex-husband loved building weird shit. Isn’t the library gorgeous?”

I pace in the kitchen. “That’s actually what I’m calling about. That Starfield collection you have—how much do you want for it?”

That seems to surprise her. “How much?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, I’m not sure. Truthfully, I bought the Starfield collection from a local last year,” Natalia says. “They were selling it for much less than it was worth. Most of the books were in mint condition, too! There was only one that wasn’t. It was personalized.”

Personalized?

I run my fingers along the spines of the books, slowly circling the room. “Which one?”

“Oh, one of the first ones, I think—one about Sond’s imprisonment, perhaps? I think he falls for Amara, but I can’t remember. I’m sorry, Vance,” she says, and there’s a beep on the other end. “Christ, can’t anyone just leave me alone?” Grumbling, she says something else under her breath, silencing the incoming call, and adds, “So, why do you want to buy the collection? You aren’t a very big reader.”

Absently, I pick through the books, trying to remember if there were any that fit that description. “I guess people can change.”