Another story in this profile. Pages rewritten... She was leafing through a poetry book when she bumped into a young man distracted by a stack of crime novels. The book fell, and they both laughed. Nearby, her partner exchanged a knowing look with the other man, leaning against the philosophy shelf, stifling a laugh. They began talking about books, exchanging recommendations, sharing coffee after their visits to the bookstore. The meetings became routine, the conversations increasingly intimate. Laughter, exchanging messages about poems, confessions about fears and small desires, stitched together something none of the four could name. That Friday, wine and pizza brought them all together on the same sofa, under low lighting and soft music. Knees brushed unintentionally, arms brushed, smiles came easily. A head rested on a shoulder, a hand brushed as the glass was passed, fingers calmly meeting. The air grew thick, charged with expectation. One glance lingered longer than usual, followed by another. The silence that fell wasn't uncomfortable, but pulsating, as if saying "yes" without needing words. The kiss came, first calm, then deep, amidst restrained smiles and sighs. Hands explored arms, necks, and backs, discovering textures and raising goosebumps. Bodies moved closer in a slow, natural choreography, each touch begging for the next. The room, lit only by a lamp, became a stage for that dance of rapid breathing and shy laughter. Between kisses, caresses, and glances, it was as if they had found a safe space to allow themselves to desire, unhurriedly, without guilt. When dawn turned to morning, they lay together on the rug, under a duvet, still warm from their recent touch, exchanging calm smiles, breathing deeply, feeling that something had changed. Their story had begun among books, but it had been rewritten there, in the softness of a night in which they had allowed themselves to experience desire.