Ryan yanked the fragile old book, she’d found among her grandmother’s things out of her hand, and threw it across the room. Marian winced as the old spine cracked on the hard wood flooring.
“Wh-at are you doing? That was one of Grammy’s?” Tears sprung in her eyes when he shrugged his shoulders.
“So, what? It’s a fucking book. You’ve got hundreds of the damn things cluttering up the place. I can’t fucking move in my own flat, and—”
“My flat,” she whispered.
“What?” She jumped at the venom behind his shout, but she quietly repeated herself.
“It’s my flat, Ryan.”
She threw him a glance from under her lashes, wondering what she’d ever seen in him at that moment. Loneliness was no reason for putting up with his boorish behavior anymore.
“If you don’t like it you can leave.”
“Fine, see if any of your books will fuck you.”
Ryan slammed the front door shut behind him, and a cloud of dust rose from the book on the floor. Dust which turned into letters, until the hero she’d been reading about stood in front of her.
“Thank you for setting me free.”
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