Page 7 of Firefly Nights

She sighs, but there's a hint of a smile playing at her lips. "Second floor. Historical fiction needs reorganizing."

"Historical fiction, huh?" I follow her up the stairs, noting how she automatically skips the creaky fourth step. "Branching out from your daily dose of Elizabeth and Darcy?"

"There's more to my reading life than Pride and Prejudice," she says primly, but I catch the hint of a smile.

"Could've fooled me. Page ninety-four's looking pretty worn these days."

She flushes slightly. "You're very observant for someone who claims fiction is a waste of time."

"I never said it was a waste of time. I said real life is better." We reach the landing, and I set the box down to catch my breath. "So enlighten me. What does Grace Lawson read when she's not alphabetizing research materials?"

She leans against the railing, considering me. "You really want to know?"

"Would I ask if I didn't?"

"People ask lots of things they don't really want answers to."

"True." I stretch my shoulders, preparing for the rest of our journey. "But I'm not people. I'm the guy currently preventing you from a nasty back injury. I think that earns me one honest answer about your reading habits.”

Something shifts in her expression. It’s like a wall coming down. "I love stories about ordinary people finding their courage," she says quietly. "About quiet moments that change everything. Magic hiding in plain sight." She trails her fingers along the railing. "One of my favorite books is actuallyThe Blue Castleby L.M. Montgomery. Most people only know her forAnne of Green Gables, but this one's different. It's about a woman who stops being afraid of life."

"Sounds relevant to your interests."

Her head snaps up, eyes narrowing. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Hey, no judgment here." I raise my hands in surrender. "Just noticing patterns. It's what I do, remember? Like how this building's foundation tells me someone poured their heart intogetting every detail right." I pick up the box again. "Same way your books tell me what matters to you."

"And what's that?"

"The possibility of something more." We start down the row of shelves. "Though I still think reality can surprise you just as much as fiction, if you let it."

"Says the man who measures everything twice."

"Trust but verify." I grin at her over the box. "Speaking of which, where exactly are these going?"

"Just past the Civil War section, next to—" She stops abruptly, and I nearly run into her. "Did you reorganize the biography display?"

"Guilty. Had some time while the paint was drying yesterday." I set down the box, rolling my shoulders. "Thought it might be nice to group them by profession instead of just chronologically. Artists with artists, writers with writers. Figured it might help people find inspiration from similar minds."

Grace stares at the display, then at me. "That's actually brilliant."

"Don't sound so shocked. Some of us can appreciate a good organizational system even without a library science degree."

"But you said categorizing everything was—and I quote—'taking all the fun out of discovery.'"

"Maybe someone's helping me appreciate the value of a well-ordered world." I start unpacking the box, deliberately not meeting her eyes. "Even if I still think real life is the best story going."

She joins me in unpacking, our hands brushing occasionally over dusty volumes. "Real life doesn't always have satisfying endings."

"Neither doesRomeo and Juliet."

A startled laugh escapes her. "Did you just make a literary reference to prove reality is better than fiction?"

"Did it work?"

"No." But she's smiling now, really smiling, the kind that reaches her eyes and makes something in my chest tighten. "But I'll give you points for effort."

"I'll take it." I pull out the last book—something thick and historical-looking. "So, what makes this one special?"

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