It wasn’t planned.
Just a quiet moment, tucked between shelves of forgotten stories and pages worn soft with love.
Emma reached for the last copy of a book she wasn’t even sure she’d read. The cover was faded, the spine cracked. But something about it called to her.
At that exact second, another hand reached for it too.
Warm skin brushed hers.
A spark—not loud, not dramatic—just… right.
She glanced up. He was already smiling.
“Sorry,” she said quietly, her voice caught between surprise and something she didn’t quite recognize yet.
“Don’t be,” he replied. “It was a good mistake.”
His name was Jack. She didn’t know that yet. And he didn’t know hers.
But in that still bookstore, filled with dust and magic and soft golden light, it didn’t matter.
“Go ahead,” he said, nodding toward the book.
“You take it,” she offered.
He paused, then smiled again. “You read it first. Then tell me if it’s worth chasing.”
That’s how it started.
With a borrowed book and an excuse to meet again.
A week later, they sat across from each other in a tiny café, mugs between them, stories spilling out faster than they could drink. And when the book was finished, they kept meeting. For coffee. For walks. For everything that came next.
A month passed. At a crosswalk, Jack gently reached for her hand.
Familiar now. Certain.
“I just wanted to check,” he said, “if it still felt like the first time.”
It did.
That one touch became a hundred more.
Hands resting together during lazy Sunday mornings. Fingers laced while wandering unfamiliar streets. Tight grips in tearful airports, soft squeezes in crowded theaters, quiet promises exchanged in the dark.
Until one day, he knelt down with a small velvet box, hand trembling.
“Let’s make this moment last forever,” he whispered.
And she nodded, heart full, eyes shining.
Because it all began…
With a single, accidental touch.
