Page 5 of Firefly Nights

"They're different modern-english translations," I explain, moving closer to check on my precious volumes. "The Norton has better annotations, but the Riverside's translations are more poetic, and the third one has the original folios for comparison."

He sets down his drill, eyebrows lifting. "You actually read all of them?"

"Of course. How else would I know which version to recommend when someone needs—" I stop at his growing grin. "What?"

"Nothing. Just trying to picture you curled up with three massive books, cross-referencing Shakespeare's word choices."

"As opposed to what? Facebook and Instagram?"

"Hey, social media has its place." He picks up a piece of wood, measuring carefully. "But I was thinking more along the lines of, you know, living. Experiencing things firsthand instead of through other people's words."

The familiar defensiveness rises in my chest. "Books aren't just words."

"No?" He looks up, something challenging in his smile. "What are they then?"

"They're..." I trail my fingers along the spine of the nearest Shakespeare volume. "They're possibilities. Every story is a door opening to something new. Something that might seem impossible in regular life, but in books..." I pause, searching for words he might understand. "In books, the quiet librarian can be the hero. The ordinary becomes extraordinary. People find courage they never knew they had."

Nathan sets down his measuring tape, studying me with an intensity that makes my skin tingle. "And you don't think those things happen in real life?"

"Of course they do. But in books, you're guaranteed a proper ending. Courage is always rewarded. The risk is always worth taking." I swallow hard, aware I'm revealing more than I mean to. "Real life isn't that reliable."

"Maybe that's what makes it better." He steps closer, and suddenly the reference section feels very small. "The uncertainty. The not knowing. The chance that something amazing might be waiting just around the corner."

"Or something terrible."

"But isn't that what makes the amazing parts matter more?" His voice softens. "Your books can only give you someone else's version of life, Grace. Don't you want to write your own story?"

"I—" The words stick in my throat as he reaches past me to grab another piece of shelving. His arm brushes mine, and the scent of sawdust and coffee fills my senses.

"Besides," he continues, oblivious to my internal chaos, "I've seen you with those kids during story time. The way your whole face lights up when they really connect with a book. That's not something you can get from reading about it."

"That's different."

"Is it?" He starts measuring again, but his eyes keep finding mine. "Or is it just easier to pretend real connections aren't worth the risk?"

"You don't know anything about—" I start, but he cuts me off with a gentle laugh.

"I know you've dog-eared page ninety-four in that copy ofPride and Prejudiceyou keep at the desk. I know you mouth the words along with your favorite passages when you think no one's watching. And I know you're terrified that if you step out of these stories you love so much, you might find out life can be better than fiction."

Heat floods my face. "I do not mouth the words."

"You absolutely do. It's adorable."

The drill whirs to life again before I can respond, but his words echo in my head.Better than fiction. As if anything could be better than the carefully crafted worlds waiting in my books. As if real life, with all its messiness and uncertainty, could compete with the promise of "happily ever after."

But as I watch Nathan work, his movements sure and steady as he builds something new in my carefully ordered world, a treacherous little voice in the back of my mind whispers,What if he's right?

"The thing about stars," a familiar voice says as I round the bend in the path, "is that they're both practical and magical at the same time."

I freeze, spotting Nathan stretched out on a blanket in the middle of the meadow. He's lying on his back, hands clasped behind his head, staring up at the night sky like it holds answers to questions I didn't know he was asking.

"How long have you been out here?" I ask, instead of turning and fleeing like my racing heart suggests.

"Long enough to watch Venus rise." He pats the empty space beside him on the blanket. "Care to join the astronomy lesson?"

I hesitate. This feels different from our firefly encounter—more intimate somehow. But curiosity wins out, and I find myself settling carefully onto the corner of the blanket, tucking my legs underneath me.

"So," I say, trying to sound casual. "Practical and magical?"

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