By Jennifer Darknight

When it came to love, neither one of them knew how to do it right.

When she found out, she searched every book she could find, reading every squishy romance novel she could get her hands on to pinpoint this odd feeling welling up in her chest whenever he so much as glanced in her direction.

When he found out, he scoured his head for theorems, equations, facts…SOMETHING, so as to tell him what in the hell he was thinking whenever he watched her read silently at the table next to him, her soft eyes alight with fascination as she turned each page.

In her eyes, he was an enigma of sorts—he came into her life like he was somehow already shoved in it in some alternate universe, and then he wedged himself in her heart in a way that wouldn't wriggle loose, no matter how much she tried.

In his eyes, she was just like she was when he had known her 'other' self, only more—he didn't know what she was 'more' of, though…perhaps it was her mind, since unlike her other self, she dabbled in science as well, and could put her own two cents on his topics, and sometimes top him every now and again.

Before she knew it, she had been expecting those morning visits, smiling to herself and sometimes even humming a little tune when looking at the clock, only to realize that he'd be there soon.

Before he knew it, he had been looking forward to those morning trips to the library, as if only to see her beaming face when he walked in the door. Besides, it was cute whenever she got lost in a book, and he'd have to lightly tap her shoulder for her to notice that he was there.

It was simple, it was just…there. Like words spread out on a page, they would see each other daily, but words would never escape either of their lips, but rather would meet each other with silent smiles.

After all, she knew that he was too good for her—what did a librarian have to offer a man who obviously had many things going for him, physically and intellectually? The man would make a wonderful husband to whoever he married, and she could hardly cook anything that wouldn't explode on the stove (He told her that she was being overdramatic; but then, he hadn't seen her cooking, either).

He knew that she was too good for him—what right did he have, with all the sins he had committed in the past, to actually expect to hold a woman like her with his blood-soaked hands? He kept telling himself that that was over now, that it was all in the past, and that he didn't have to worry about that anymore, but the bugged eyes of a frightened nine year old boy told him otherwise.

But then, who could stop love?

It had started small, at first. His hand would accidentally brush hers as they went to pick up the same book that fell on the floor, and then they would blush, jumping away from each other with flushed faces and racing hearts. Months went by like that, with them 'accidentally' brushing against each other, 'accidentally' locking eyes from across the near-empty library, and arranging 'friendly' trips to the nearby café to talk over coffee. Sometimes they would even 'coincidentally' run into each other by the city square, only to sit and talk for hours before returning to the library, where they would talk even more, until the moon's song let them know that it was time for them to part.

Soon though, the 'accidental' brushing turned into 'accidental' handholding, and the 'friendly' café visits turned into 'friendly' dinner dates, until eventually everything was so 'accidental' that they weren't sure what was 'accidental' or what was 'purposeful' anymore.

She was starting to understand what was happening.

He was starting to understand what was happening.

But as their eyes locked, and their fingers entwined under the library table, they both broke out into a shy smile.

Neither was going to move.

Neither wanted to move.

After all, when it came to love, neither one knew that they were doing it right.