I nod, throat tight. "Several more stanzas. But perhaps?—"
"Keep going."
The command is soft but unmistakable. I turn the page, finding the section I've translated most recently, the words still rough around the edges.
"In dreams, thou walkest through my thoughts like sunlight through a forest, touching everything, transforming shadow into gold. I wake with thy phantom warmth still pressed against my palm, thy voice still echoing in the chambers of my skull."
Maya's hand moves, fingers brushing mine where they rest against the manuscript's edge. The touch is light, tentative, but it sends electricity shooting up my arm.
"Love is not a song, though bards would have us think so. Love is architecture—foundation poured deep, walls raised with patience, roof shaped to weather storms. Love is the work of years, the slow accumulation of trust like stones fitted careful into place."
Her fingers intertwine with mine properly now, and I nearly lose my place in the text.
"But some walls are meant for climbing, some foundations meant for dancing. And in thy presence, I am not architect but earthquake, trembling the careful structures I have built."
"Ursak." Her voice is barely a whisper.
I look up from the manuscript, and Maya is close enough that I can see the gold flecks in her brown eyes, can feel her breath against my cheek. Her free hand reaches up, fingers tracing the line of my jaw with wondering gentleness.
"You're not just reading that, are you?" she murmurs. "You're... translating it. Into something else."
"Maya—"
"Into something that matters."
The words break something open. All the careful walls I've built, all the professional distance I've maintained, all the fears about timing and immigration status and cultural differences. They crumble in one heartbeat and the next.
I cup her face in my palm, thumb brushing across her cheekbone. "I've been wanting to tell you. For weeks. But with everything uncertain?—"
"Tell me now."
So I do. Not in English or German or any of the six human dialects I've mastered, but in the language of touch. My lips findhers, soft and hesitant at first, then with growing certainty as she melts against me.
She tastes like spring rolls and possibility. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer across the narrow desk. The manuscript crinkles beneath our joined hands, but neither of us pulls away.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, Maya's forehead rests against mine. "Was that in the original text?"
"Loosely translated."
She laughs, soft and breathy. "I like your interpretation."
I'm about to respond when a beam of light sweeps across the far wall. We freeze, listening to the security guard's footsteps echoing through the main reading room.
"Shit," Maya whispers. "What time is it?"
I check my watch. "Nine-fifteen. We're past closing."
The footsteps grow closer. Maya scrambles to pack up the takeout containers while I quickly close the manuscript and gather my notes. We can hear the guard checking the other study carrels, flashlight beam dancing across the walls.
"This way," I whisper, leading Maya toward the emergency exit at the back of the restricted section. It's technically for fire evacuation only, but the alarm is disabled during evening hours to accommodate researchers who sometimes work late.
We slip through the door just as the guard's flashlight illuminates our abandoned table. Maya presses her hand over her mouth to muffle a giggle as we creep down the emergency stairs, trying to keep our footsteps quiet on the metal steps.
The exit dumps us into the alley behind the library. Maya bursts into full laughter the moment the door closes behind us, and the sound is so infectious that I can't help joining her.
"We're like teenagers sneaking out after curfew," she gasps between giggles.
"I haven't broken this many rules since graduate school."
