Rumbelle One-Shots Because Heaven Knows We Need Them

"True Love?"

        Belle French sat on a bench in Central Park, her book open to her favorite part, the sun hitting the pages through the leaves of the tree she was under and dabbling her immediate surroundings in patches of light. There was virtually no breeze that day and she was almost thankful she and Gaston had gotten in a fight. 

        He had been arguing she had too many books and then had the audacity to rip the one she had been holding from her hands to throw into the fireplace. Luckily, and not without the help of the fire-poker, she had been able to save it before it burned too bad. She had then run from the apartment, hailed a taxi, and hidden in the huge park. There was no way he was going to find her here. Giving a tiny sigh, she closed the cover and ran her fingers over where the green had begun to blacken. The golden title shimmered up at her, smiling through its pain.

        "Her Handsome Hero?"

        She jumped up, turning on the voice. The man who had spoken was wearing a simper, his expression was the perfect mix of confusion and an amused sort of fascination. His eyes were almost amber, the face they were set in framed with soft brown hair that held a tinge of grey. She realized she was staring and composed herself.

        "Oh, yeah, it's my favorite," she said, "my mother used to read it to me when I was little."

         He took in the book, "It looks like someone tried to throw it into a fire."

         "That might be because someone did."

         "Hmm," he appeared interested, but changed the subject, "I'm sorry I startled you. I was just surprised somebody was sitting on my bench."

         Belle's eyebrows shot up, "Your bench?"

        "Nobody else ever sits here, that's why I like it," he gave a one-shouldered shrug.

        "It's a public bench."

        "True enough," his small smile was still present with this final statement as he limped forward, drawing her attention to his ornate gold and black cane. He sat on the bench and surveyed a field a modest distance away where a group of elementary school-age kids were trying- and failing- to fly kites. 

        Belle stood awkwardly, her knuckles turning white from clutching her book so hard. Finally she sat down next to him, practically hugging the opposite arm rest. She opened the novel, again to her favorite part, and read to the end of the page before registering she hadn't retained any of it. Her mind had been on the stranger next to her. 

        She looked back to him, only to find his eyes were on the book in her hand. With a small shock she realized he had been reading over her shoulder. Their eyes locked and the corner of his nose twitched involuntarily. It took all of her willpower not giggle at him and so she spun fully, sticking out her hand. 

        "My name's Belle French."

        His mouth opened slightly and he stayed still a few moments before taking it in his own, "Randolph Gold," he answered.

       Belle smiled. It was an odd name, one she only ever heard in books, "Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Randolph."

       They slid back into silence, his expression riddled with disorientation. Why was she talking to him? Why did she introduce herself? Why...?

       Over on her end she was wondering the exact same thing and even what she should talk about next. He was interesting. He was a puzzle to put together. He was....

        A complete stranger. 

        He was a man sitting on a bench in Central Park, New York City, New York, U.S.A., but something pulled her to him. Goosebumps broke out on her arm. Gaston would be furious if-