So she writes.

They met there, between the pages of books, both written and unwritten.
Intertwining themselves with words and thoughts. His hands were calloused, but his touch was soft. His words were harsher than hers, but more beautiful. He smelled like the inside of her favorite book, and motorcycles. She was smaller than he'd expected and she laughed when he said so.
"Are you going to hurt me?" She asked.
"Yes." He said, as if that was enough explanation.
He patted the back of his bike."Let's go, we don't have forever."
And they rode off, to wander in and out of books, until the words ran out.