And that’s what we do, both of us putting our hands over our ears when the moaning gets louder. For someone who was so willing to have me read a sex scene out loud, Ryan is remarkably flustered by an actual sex scene. I can’t help wondering what he’d be like in bed—if he’d be pink cheeked and flushed, eager to please but a little awkward. Or like he was on the beach—intense and focused, his mouth and hands demanding more more more.

My body flares with heat.

A rhythmic thumping echoes from the store, followed by the unmistakable sound of trade paperbacks falling to the floor.

“What. Are they doing. To my books?” Ryan whispers, aghast.

We hear male grunting, joined by a higher-pitched moan. It reminds me of my last conversation with RJ about noisy sex, and my admission that I’ve never made more than a loud sigh. I’m starting to worry that you’ve had extremely mediocre sex.

Brigitte cries out, a piercing scream that goes on and on and on.

“Gold star, Sam,” I murmur.

Ryan squeezes his eyes shut, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter, and then I’m doing the same, both of us stifling giggles and struggling to breathe. I make a mental note to delete the security camera footage ASAP.

Finally, Sam and Brigitte head out the door, and Ryan and I go survey the scene. One bookshelf has been shoved a good two feet from its original location, and most of its books are on the floor. I also discover a suspicious damp spot on the chair our two lovebirds were sharing. I’m about to mention it to Ryan, then decide he’s had enough sexually traumatizing experiences in his beloved bookshop and flip the cushion over.

Together, we clean up the remains of dinner, and I stack the dirty dishes in a box to bring to my place.

Ryan takes it out of my hands. “I’ll walk you home.”

It feels so natural to head back out into the warm summer night, to smile up at him and see him smiling down at me. Like this is something we do all the time, walking home from work together. When we get to my building, it feels just as natural to fish out my key and unlock the door, to have him follow me up the stairs.

When he steps inside my apartment, though, it no longer feels so natural, maybe because he’s taking up half the space in my kitchen, sucking the oxygen out of the room. My bedroom is twenty steps away, and my knees feel wobbly, my brain playing a slideshow of possibilities: Ryan. Bed. Naked.

“Your place is cozy,” he says, setting the box of dishes on my counter.