The bookstore had always smelled like ink and calm. A sanctuary of forgotten stories, yellowing pages, and quiet judgment. But today, that peace was broken--shattered by the sound of a fist connecting with a jaw.
It wasn't supposed to go like this.
"Emma!"
She froze mid-step, Mark still holding her hand. Her stomach dropped before her brain caught up.
No. No, no, no.
"Emma?" Mark asked, turning slightly.
She didn't answer. Her fingers tightened around his, and she shook her head once, sharply.
Too late.
Dylan was already there.
All six-foot-something of him, built like a freight train with a temper to match, weaving through the crowd like he'd been trained to bulldoze obstacles. Which, to be fair, he had. Dylan wasn't just a brother. He was a professional boxer--a ranked one. Emma had never mentioned this once to Mark. Clearly, she should have emphasized it more.
"You!"
Mark blinked. "Me?"
Emma tried to step between them, already knowing how this was going to go. "Dylan, stop--just LISTEN for a second--"
But it was too late.
Dylan's fist connected with Mark's jaw with a sickening crack that echoed across the store like a gunshot. A woman near the new releases section gasped so loudly she dropped her copy of The Secret Lives of Hedgehogs. A teenager shouted, "WORLDSTAR!" and immediately pulled out their phone.
Mark stumbled backward, into a shelf labeled True Crime, which now felt uncomfortably on the nose.
"WHAT THE HELL--" he slurred, holding his face.
"Get your damn hands off my sister!" Dylan shouted, fists still clenched.
Emma shoved her brother hard, face blazing with fury. "He's my BOYFRIEND, Dylan! He wasn't doing anything!"
"You were practically swallowing each other's faces in public!" Dylan snapped, eyes wild. "In a mall!"
Mark wiped blood from his lip, still trying to make sense of what the hell just happened. "You attacked me!"
"You were touching my sister like you own her," Dylan growled.
Emma groaned. "Dylan, you are not in a 90s sitcom. This is real life."
"She's not a child, man," Mark said, standing up straighter, despite the ringing in his ears. "And I wasn't--this isn't--what even is happening?!"
People were gathered now. An impromptu audience. Phones up, mouths open. Someone whispered, "Oh my god, is he okay?" Another whispered back, "Dude, that's Emma The one with the perfect eyebrows!"
The security guard, somewhere between nervous and underpaid, hovered nearby but did not intervene. He looked like he was waiting for someone else to make the first move--or maybe for backup. Emma could practically hear the mental math: One large man, one bleeding guy, one angry woman. Do I want to deal with this?
Emma turned to her brother, voice low and shaking. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to show up and decide who I'm allowed to care about."
Dylan's nostrils flared. "You didn't tell me you were seeing someone."
"I didn't know I needed your permission!" she shot back.
Mark, wincing, leaned on a shelf marked Relationships. "I'm just… gonna bleed right here while you two work this out."
Dylan turned on him again. "You think this is funny?"
Mark held up his hands. "No, no, definitely not. It's just… surreal. One second I'm next to a Cinnabon, the next I'm in a fight I didn't start with a man who could bench press my car."
"Maybe next time don't grope people in public!"
Mark's voice dropped, his frustration finally surfacing. "You think that was me disrespecting her? That kiss was her choice too. You don't know me, and you didn't ask. You just punched first and asked questions never."
That silenced Dylan for a beat.
Emma moved between them again, chest heaving. "Dylan, go home."
"What?"
"Go. Home," she repeated, voice steel. "Before I call mom and tell her everything. Including the part where you hit my boyfriend in a bookstore and made a scene in front of a bunch of strangers who are now probably livestreaming this."
Dylan looked around. Several phones were, indeed, pointed at them.
Someone in the back called out, "THIS IS BETTER THAN NETFLIX!"
Defeated, Dylan huffed a breath, muttering under it, "I just wanted to protect you."
Emma's expression softened, only slightly. "You don't need to protect me. You need to trust me."
Dylan hesitated, jaw tight. Then, wordlessly, he turned and walked out of the store.
The moment he left, the tension dissolved into the air like mist. Mark exhaled loudly and slumped against the shelf.
Emma turned to him, eyes brimming with concern. "Mark, oh my god, are you okay?"
He tried to smile. "Define 'okay.'"
Emma touched his cheek gently, her fingers brushing a small cut under his eye. "You need ice. And maybe a tetanus shot. Do fists have germs?"
"Boxer fists definitely do," Mark muttered. "That man is built like a vending machine."
She chuckled weakly, the adrenaline starting to crash. "I am so sorry."
"I mean… I kissed you. Got punched. Got mistaken for a criminal. Got famous on BookTok in the span of like, twenty minutes. Totally normal date."
A woman nearby--probably in her fifties--approached them, still clutching her self-help book. "That was quite the scene," she said kindly. "But… for what it's worth, you two seem like the real thing. Even after that."
Emma smiled awkwardly. "Thanks… I think?"
The woman patted her arm. "I've been married thirty years. Love doesn't start quietly. It crashes in, loud and messy."
As the woman walked away, Mark let out a breath and looked down at Emma. "Do all your family members hit like that?"
"No," she said. "Just Dylan. And only when he's having an overprotective big brother meltdown."
"Well," Mark winced. "Remind me to meet your mom in a public, padded room."
Emma laughed. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up."
They made their way out of the bookstore, hand in hand, Mark limping slightly but still standing proud. The crowd began to thin. Some people clapped. One dude gave Mark a fist bump and said, "Respect, man. You took those punches like a champ."
Mark muttered, "Yeah, that's what my face is saying too."
--
Later…
They were sitting on a bench just outside the bookstore, under a sad-looking potted tree, with a half-melted bag of ice pressed to Mark's face. Emma kept stealing glances at him, guilt churning in her stomach.
"I should've warned you," she said for the tenth time.
"You did," he said, voice muffled through the ice. "You just didn't underline it."
She sighed. "I don't know why I thought he'd be normal about this."
Mark smiled, despite the pain. "You know what's wild? I'm not even mad."
Emma looked at him, surprised. "You're not?"
"I mean, I was," he said. "For like, ten seconds. But then you stood up for me. You stood up to him. And that… that meant more than the punch hurt."
She leaned her head on his shoulder gently. "Still. You didn't deserve that."
Mark chuckled. "It's kind of poetic, though. First kiss at a Cinnabon. First beatdown in a bookstore. We're like, reverse fairy tale material."
Emma snorted. "Do reverse fairy tales have happy endings?"
"They do," he said, sliding his hand into hers again, "when the girl's worth getting punched over."
She stared at him for a moment, then leaned in and kissed his cheek. "You're ridiculous."
"Hey," he said, pretending to be offended, "I'm a romantic."
They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the mall traffic pass by, the chaos slowly returning to the mundane. Somewhere inside, Dylan was probably still fuming--or maybe already texting their mom an edited version of events.
Emma didn't care.
Because right now, Mark was still here. Still holding her hand. Still choosing to stay.
And that? That felt like something real.
Even if it had been born in powdered sugar, fists, and bookstore drama.
---
A/N: a pinch of family drama is a must in romance novels.
Save this book.
vote this book.
pls drop your thoughts about this chapter.