"She was reading, and I wanted to stay between the lines—close to her lips."
—Stefano Visconti
The next morning, soft sunlight slipped through the heavy curtains, landing in warm patches on Hanako's body. She slowly opened her eyes, stretched, and, drawing the curtains apart, saw the rain-washed cobblestones glistening under Paris's tender glow.
A new day. A new chapter.
She opened her suitcase and began going through her clothes as if flipping through pages—where should she begin?
She chose a light cream blouse with a thin bow at the neck, slightly vintage—like from the cover of a 1940s novel. A dark navy midi skirt made of soft fabric that swayed beautifully with every step. Dark oxfords—flat, but full of character. A cardigan the color of wet asphalt, hand-knitted back in Kyoto, when Paris was just a dream. And a small silver crane-shaped pin—a memory of home.
As she walked down the stairs, she took a sip of coffee. Everything was the same—except without the poetry in a coat.
"How could I meet him again?" she whispered as she approached the reception.
"Pardon, madame, has a letter arrived in my name?" she asked the concierge.
"Your name, mademoiselle?"
"Hanako Miyazaki."
"Ah, yes…" the concierge searched through the letters. "Here, just this morning. For you, mademoiselle."
"Merci!"
Slowly opening the envelope, she saw it was written in formal English—from a publisher.
"Dear Ms. Hanako,
We are pleased to welcome you as a trainee to Éditions Gallimard. Your presence is expected at 10:00 am…"
Her heart tightened.
This was it. The same publishing house she had discovered at sixteen, when she read Camus under the desk.
She still had time.
The streets sparkled with rain as she reached the old building on Rue de Sèvres.
Beige facade. Wooden doors. And the scent—of old books, ink, and a touch of fear.
"Are you Hanako Miyazaki?" asked a man in round glasses.
"Yes. I'm... the intern."
But she didn't finish. Because she saw him.
Stefano.
A dark sweater, sleeves rolled up. He leaned over a manuscript, marking something with a red pencil.
When he saw her, he looked up—and his eyes changed.
Warm. Surprised. Happy.
"You?!"
Hanako felt a blush burn her cheeks.
"Oh no. You again?"
"I think this is fate," he smiled, his voice carrying a soft note that made her heart leap.
"You know each other?" the man interrupted.
"Yes… well… café, rain… coincidence…" she babbled.
"Paris is a master of surprises," Stefano replied calmly.
"And marriages," she added.
He smiled.
"She'll be interning with you. Loves poetry. And I think she's a good translator."
"Oh, I've already had the chance to see that," Stefano whispered just for her to hear.
She nervously brushed hair from her forehead, but her eyes stayed on him.
She wanted to say something witty, but her brain chose not to help.
"Well, now I'm officially in trouble," she mumbled in Japanese.
"Watashi mo," he replied.
Perfect. Dangerously charming.
"Want me to show you the library?"
"What's there?"
"Silence. Books. And... one café. But no couple discounts this time."
Hanako smiled, feeling that same warmth awaken inside her again.
And at that moment she realized: Paris was preparing not only stories in books for her.
Maybe her own, too.
The library was like a dream. Towering shelves up to the ceiling, wooden ladders, the scent of old paper.
"Wow..." Hanako couldn't hide her awe.
"First time seeing a library?" Stefano asked sarcastically.
"Aren't you jealous I'm surprised?" she smiled.
"Not at all," he said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "It's cute."
She spotted a familiar cover.
"That's Proust! 'In Search of Lost Time'!"
"You know it?"
"It's a rare edition..."
"Then take it."
"Can I?" Her eyes sparkled, lips shaped like a bow.
"Yes."
Reading at the table, her legs were slightly crossed, and her skirt brushed just enough to leave room for imagination.
In her hands—Marcel Proust's In Search of Lost Time.
She read slowly, savoring the words like they were wine.
Stefano watched from behind the shelves.
Her blouse was slightly translucent in the light; a thin line of sweat rolled down her collarbone.
He couldn't look away.
Her fingers touched the pages like skin.
Her smile—mysterious, soft, dangerous.
And the way she read—it was like poetry.
Like temptation.
"She's flirting... with philosophy," flashed through his mind.
And somehow, that aroused him more than any explicit word.
She looked up. Their eyes met.
"Have you ever fallen in love with a book?" she asked softly.
Stefano swallowed. In his mind:
And if I say yes, but I'm thinking of you?
"Yes," he whispered, leaning closer.
"But pages never breathed like you do."
Her fingers gently tightened around the edge of the page.
Her heart was beating faster than her breaths.
His hand touched her wrist—a light touch, sending chills down her skin.
She didn't pull away.
"Have you ever read something forbidden?" she asked, leaning so close he could smell her hair—warm, with a hint of tea and rain.
"That's exactly what's happening now," he whispered.
Her smile—soft, graceful, dangerous.
Stefano was about to say something when her hand suddenly touched his—not by accident, not shyly, but with intention.
Lightly. Confidently.
"You dropped your bookmark," she whispered.
And before he could react, she leaned toward him, very close...
But instead of a kiss, her lips nearly touched his ear, and she whispered:
"In the next chapter, the main character burns with desire. Coincidence?"
Stefano clenched his jaw.
The air between them thickened with heat.
He reached out to touch the page—but instead, his fingers found her palm.
She didn't pull away.
"Are you sure we're in a library?" he asked.
"Only physically," she answered, her gaze leading him into a world where there were no books, no table, no light.
Only two people.
And a book that began to burn—not with words, but with glances.
…Their eyes didn't leave each other.
The silence was so intense, they could hear time dripping.
And then—a sharp creak of the door.
Stefano stepped back slightly.
Hanako quietly adjusted her hairpin, as if nothing had happened.
Her eyes sparkled—because of the book, or… because of him?
"I… I have to go," she whispered, pressing the book to her chest.
"I'll walk you," he said without asking.
"No," she smiled, light and playful.
"You've already distracted me from the hottest scene."
She turned and walked away slowly, her silhouette vanishing like the final line of an unfinished poem.
Stefano watched her for a few more seconds.
Then he remembered—she had forgotten her bookmark.
But not the paper one.
His heart.