Tall and tousled, he held The Art of Knotting. She watched him slowly trace each page, mouthing the words as he read.

“Learning restraint, or hoping to lose it?” she teased.

He smiled. 

She drew him between the shelves, lips meeting, tongues dancing, hands exploring. Her fingers slid to his waistband, pressing into the heat between them. 

He trembled. 

His skin rippled, folded, and textured into parchment. He collapsed in her arms, until all that remained was a book.

She ran her fingers along his spine. “Perfectly bound,” she whispered. “And mine to borrow.”