The spring sun filtered through the high windows of the campus writing studio, turning the dust motes into soft glitter. Ella sat on the edge of a couch, bare feet tucked beneath her, watching Kieran as he read over his latest poem.
He stood near the window, posture relaxed but focused, the light catching in his hair. The room smelled faintly of old books and lavender from her tea. Around them, the world felt hushed, paused.
He looked up, caught her staring, and smirked. "You're not even pretending to be subtle anymore."
"Can you blame me?" she said, smiling. "You look like something from a tragic love story. The good kind."
He raised an eyebrow. "There's a good kind?"
"The kind where no one dies," she teased, rising to join him. "Only longing, poetry, and well-timed kisses."
His smirk turned thoughtful as he set the poem down. "I've been thinking about those. Kisses."
Ella's breath caught.
"Oh?"
"I've written a hundred of them," he said, voice low. "But I've never actually had one that mattered. Not until you."
She took a step closer. "You're sure you want your first real one to be with a book nerd who quotes Brontë in casual conversation?"
He stepped closer, too. "Only if she occasionally lets me write sonnets on her arm."
Her hand found his chest, the steady rhythm of his heart matching hers. His eyes searched hers, every emotion written clear in his gaze — anticipation, affection, a touch of disbelief.
"Do it, then," she whispered. "Write your next line."
And then he kissed her.
Slow at first — tentative, like poetry in a language neither of them had quite learned yet. But then deeper, as if every unwritten letter between them had been waiting for this punctuation mark.
His hands cradled her face, fingers sliding into her hair, and hers gripped the back of his shirt like he might vanish again if she let go.
When they finally pulled apart, both of them breathless and flushed, she rested her forehead against his.
"That," she murmured, "was worth every secret note."
Kieran laughed, soft and warm. "I think I just used up a year's worth of metaphors."
"Good," she whispered. "Now you'll have to keep living moments worth writing about."
They sank to the floor, surrounded by papers, books, and silence that no longer felt empty. She leaned against his shoulder as he reached for a pencil and began sketching words in the margin of his draft.
She watched him — the way his brow furrowed when he concentrated, how he chewed the inside of his cheek when unsure. The vulnerability of him in motion was beautiful.
"You know," she said after a while, "you could publish this one."
"I wasn't writing it for the world," he replied, not looking up.
"Who was it for?"
He finally met her eyes. "You. It's always been you."
Ella swallowed. "Then I hope you know I'll keep every word."
Kieran folded the page in half and slid it into her lap.
"I want you to have it. The first draft. Imperfect and real."
She took it reverently. "You're giving me a piece of your heart."
He nodded. "Because you've already given me mine back."
The rest of the day unfolded slowly — laughter, shared stories, quiet silences. They walked through the quad as golden hour lit the world in honey, his fingers laced with hers.
At one point, she turned to him and said, "Remember when we were just glances across a classroom?"
Kieran smiled. "Now we're verses across a lifetime."
That night, as she lay in bed rereading the poem he'd given her, one line stood out:
"If the stars ever envy the earth, it's because you walk upon it."
And beneath it, in pencil:
"To Ella — my favorite sentence."
She hugged the page to her chest and closed her eyes, dreaming not of the mystery man who once left her letters…
…but of the real one, with ink-stained hands and lips that tasted like stories waiting to be told.
To be continued…