Just going to keep it short and sweet.
Yes this is a romance novel.
Yes it has some (a lot of) aspects of crime.
Yes this is going to be a fast pace rather than slow burn.
No I am not mentally ill for writing this book.
Yes it is one for the ages.
Have fun on this journey.
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Hello, Brooklyn.
That hoodie again. The one you tug over your head like armor. Loose enough to hide, but not everything. Your legs are bare. You want them to be. A hint of skin beneath gray cotton. Subtle, but loud enough for anyone paying attention.
I notice. Of course I notice.
Your bracelets chime when you move. Soft, scattered notes in the silence of the library. You like that sound, don't you? The delicate reminder that you're here—that someone might look up and see you.
And I do. I always do.
You slip between the stacks, and I follow. Quiet. Patient. Careful not to break the rhythm of your world. Not because I'm obsessed—though that's what they'd call it. No. I just need to know who you are.
Mrs. Shannon once said you can read a soul through their bookshelf. I want to read yours, Brooklyn.
Most people here don't read. Kingsmere isn't built for readers. It's built for heirs. Perfect teeth and curated smiles. Faces carved for magazines, not pages. People who never touch anything without a golden edge.
But you—you're different. You read.
Not because it looks good on your Instagram. Not for the aesthetic. You choose. You linger. Like every title might hold the answer to a question no one else knows you're asking.
Your fingers drift along the spines—light, like you're searching for a pulse. They slow at R. Romance.
I knew it.
You don't read for tropes. You read for hope. For the spark. For the maybe. For that someone.
Your head tilts. Your eyes skim the titles, then flicker—just for a second—toward me. Blue. Too blue. And then, just as sudden, you move on.
I follow.
You lean towards the bookshelf, hoodie sliding forward so the strands of your hair tumble free. Gold against gray.
I step closer, quiet as breath, just to see what you'll choose.
"Any recommendations?"
Your voice. Sweet, steady—but guarded. Like a hand hovering over the lock on a door.
You're talking to me.
I lean beside you, slow. "Depends. What are you looking for?"
You smile—small, quick, like lightning you're not sure you want anyone to see. "Something real."
Something real.
I could give you that, Brooklyn. I could give you everything.
You drop your bag and crouch. A loose strand of hair falls, grazing your cheek. I follow, crouching beside you, too close. Close enough to smell you—vanilla and something darker, like ink.
My heart claws at my chest.
You scan the shelves, unaware that every breath of yours hooks deeper into me.
Then you find it. You smile—not the kind you give for a camera. This one is soft, secret. And I want to rip it from the book and keep it forever.
I don't speak. If I do, I'll ruin it.
So I memorise you instead. Every curve of your hand as you slide the book free. Every sound of your bracelets, soft against the hum of fluorescent lights.
Both our eyes lock onto the soft cover. Our noses captivated by its fresh smell.
"A million Junes. Allegedly the greatest piece of fiction since Shakespeare. But you didn't hear it from me."
"I know. I know. I'm afraid it might be overrated."
"Have you ever heard of an overrated Emily Henry book?"
The gold in your hair coils around your finger with your teeth clenched to your lips. If this was our romance story, we would have crashed into the bookshelf lips first. But we didn't. Because it isn't.
"Shit. Sorry," you say, standing up and stepping back, "I'm late for a lecture."
"History of Art?" slips out before I can stop it.
You blink. "Yeah. How'd you—"
"Lucky guess."
Your lanyard swings as you scan it in self checkout.
"Brooklyn Zidra," I read aloud, and grin. "Parents hated you, huh?"
"Don't remind me."
You smile, and for a second, the whole room tilts.
"Dan," you read from mine.
"Lieberman," I finish, because I want you to know.
"Here, The risk by S.T Abby. If you hate it, kill me." My impulse took over me again.
"I'll keep you on that promise." You say as you gently rub your legs.
"Have a good day Brooklyn."
"You too."
And then you're gone.
Brooklyn, you should never keep your timetable on your lanyard. What if someone memorised it?
What if someone was already planning the next time they'd see you?
But that's not me. I'm not following you. Not really.
The lecture hall smells of perfume and coffee. Kingsmere students drape themselves like art—hair glossed, shoes polished, laughter sharp enough to cut.
You sit at the edge, hoodie still up, like you don't belong. But you do. More than them. More than me.
I slip into a seat three rows behind you.
Your notebook opens. Blank at first. Then the pen moves—slow, deliberate.
Your handwriting curls like vines, letters pressed close as if even your words crave intimacy.
The professor talks, voice heavy with money and meaning, but I don't hear him. I hear you.
The click of your pen. The soft rustle of your sleeves. The whisper of your breath when you push your hood back, just a little.
And when you do—
God.
Your hair spills like sunlight trapped in silk. And your neck—bare, fragile. One tilt and I see the soft pulse beating there.
I want to touch it. Just to feel the proof of you.
The lecture fades to nothing. All I know is the shape of you against that hard wooden chair, and the way my name would sound if you said it.
Class ends. You don't look back.
But I see the smile you give the girl beside you—the one who tries too hard. You don't try. You don't need to.
You leave. And like before—I follow.
The quad is loud. Too many voices, too much sun.
You walk like you're somewhere else. Hoodie up again. Head down.
And then—
I see him.
Not you. Him.
Standing by the fountain like he owns it. Sharp suit, hair combed like he's on the cover of a trust fund magazine.
Maxwell.
He sees you.
And I see everything in his eyes.
The calculation. The hunger.
The same hunger I have—except his is dirty. Cruel.
He pushes off the fountain, smooth, practiced. Walks your way like it's already done. Like you're already his.
But you're not.
You're mine.
He calls your name. Loud, confident, the way men like him always do.
You look up—smile polite, unsure.
And I feel the floor shift under me.
Because he's speaking to you like he's earned it.
Because you're letting him.
Because in that second, I see a future where you laugh at his jokes, wear his jacket, sit in his car.
And I can't breathe.
I move closer.
Not enough to touch you—yet.
But enough so he sees me watching.
His eyes flick to mine. A challenge.
Good. I was hoping he'd give me one.
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Author here. I want to start something fun and ask 3 fun questions for every chapter.
1. What's your initial thoughts on Dan Lieberman.
2.Do we all love Brooklyn?
3. Early predictions on what occurs next chapter?