The morning after the rooftop, Ella woke with the warmth of Kieran's hand still in hers — not in body, but in memory. His voice lingered like the last line of a perfect poem, the kind that refuses to leave your skin.
It had only been hours, but everything felt different now.
She walked through campus with a strange softness in her step, like the world had become gentler somehow. She passed students, trees, brick walls painted with sun — the same as always, but lighter. As if she'd stepped into a dream that didn't plan to end.
And then she saw him.
Kieran stood at the entrance of the library, leaning against the stone pillar like a scene from one of her favorite novels — tall, quiet, sleeves rolled to the elbows, a leather-bound notebook under his arm. When their eyes met, he smiled.
Not the shy, passing one she'd seen before. This one was slow. Real. Like he was smiling at her, not around her.
"Hey," she said as she approached, the word barely audible over the thundering in her chest.
"Hey," he replied, his voice the same soft timbre it had always been — only now it held a thread of something more. Comfort. Familiarity. Beginning.
They stood in that quiet space between early classes and morning bustle, the world bustling around them, but still.
Kieran held out the notebook. "I wrote something. Last night. After…"
"After you wrecked my entire sense of reality in the most romantic way possible?" Ella teased, tilting her head.
His smile widened. "Exactly that."
She took the notebook gently, fingers brushing his. The page was already open to a poem written in his careful, slanted script.
"You looked at me like I was worth the wait.
And suddenly, all those years of silence became a prelude."
"I am not a hero, nor the loudest room,
but I am the kind of quiet that holds you steady."
"If this is what it means to be seen —
let me stay in your gaze a while longer."
Ella pressed her lips together, overwhelmed. "You wrote this… after we met?"
"I couldn't sleep," Kieran admitted. "Your voice was stuck in my head."
A flush crept up her cheeks, but she didn't look away. "You always knew how to speak to me through paper."
His eyes softened. "And now I want to learn to speak to you in person."
They wandered into the library together — not as strangers circling one another in silence, but side by side, steps in rhythm. He showed her his favorite corner on the top floor, where sunlight filtered through stained-glass windows and cast colors over the worn armchairs.
Ella sat in one, watching how Kieran moved — quiet, graceful, thoughtful. Every gesture was poetry.
"So," she asked, turning to him, "why did you choose to hide behind the letters for so long?"
He sat across from her, expression unreadable for a moment. Then:
"Because I thought I'd never be enough to hold someone like you."
Her breath caught.
"I watched you speak in class, the way you defended forgotten authors, the way your face lit up when someone quoted Brontë correctly. You were this... living heartbeat. And I was a whisper."
"You were never just a whisper," Ella said. "I just didn't know where to listen."
Kieran stared at her for a moment, then glanced down, smiling in that crooked way she'd begun to love.
"Now you do," he said.
Their library moment passed slowly, filled with pages, coffee sips, and quiet glances. It wasn't dramatic. There was no thunder. Just the kind of presence that wraps around you like a favorite blanket.
Later, as they parted at the steps, he paused.
"Ella?"
She turned back.
"I still have more letters," he said. "Ones I never gave you."
Her smile bloomed. "Then I guess you better start delivering them."
Kieran's expression softened — part awe, part something deeper.
"Tomorrow," he said. "And the next day. Until I run out of words."
She walked away feeling as though she was floating. The mystery had been solved, the admirer revealed… but somehow, the real story was just beginning.
This wasn't the end of a romantic game.
This was the start of something real.
To be continued…