Chapter Two: Bent Pages
The second time I came in, you didn’t look surprised.
Just waved vaguely at the shelf near the back. “Still haven’t restocked sci-fi.”
“I wasn’t coming for books.”
You blinked once. Then, with the smallest laugh: “Flirting before 3 p.m.? Bold.”
I shrugged, hands in pockets. “Could just be stalking. Depends how good the tea is today.”
You slid the chipped mug toward me. “It’s terrible. Stay anyway?”
I did.
And we talked about everything but ourselves.
Old book covers. Coffee preferences. The fact that the store cat hated everyone but you.
You laughed at my dry jokes. I listened when your voice dipped into quieter thoughts.
And I noticed the way you tucked your leg up on the stool like you always belonged there —
As if this strange, quiet corner of the world already knew your shape.
We didn’t exchange numbers.
Didn’t shake hands.
But when I left, I said,
“Same time next week?”
And you said,
“Maybe.”
But we both knew that meant yes.
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