All Joe can think, as he peers over at you from behind the worn oak counter, is that you’re perfect — a word that feels too small, too blunt, to capture what he sees. It’s the way the morning sunlight streams in through the high, dusty windows of the bookstore, catching in the fine particles of air and forming a soft, golden halo around your silhouette. Like you’re glowing from within, radiant in a way that seems almost unearthly. You’re like an angel sent down by God, a creature of light and quiet grace — and you don’t even know it yet. You stand there, completely unaware of the effect you have, as if such beauty were the most natural thing in the world.

It’s the way you have your head burrowed deep in Nietzsche, your fingers tracing the edge of the page with delicate care, careful not to crease the spine. The book is well‑loved, its cover slightly worn, but you treat it like a sacred object, as though each word were a secret whispered just for you. This is a bookstore, not a library — a place where pages are flipped quickly, spines cracked, and margins scribbled in — but Joe will make an exception, for you. He’d preserve every page, every line, just to see you like this: absorbed, thoughtful, utterly yourself.

Joe doesn’t know how he lucked out. It feels like you fell into his lap, sweet angel‑face, with your doe‑eyes wide and curious, your lips parted slightly as you read, your hair falling in soft waves around your shoulders. Or, perhaps he does know. What’s a smashed phone and a copy of the key to your apartment, really? A small price to pay, a necessary precaution. He did you a favour, truly. Any sick guy could just waltz right in there, slip through the shadows while you slept, and take advantage of your innocent, sleeping body. Dumb little bunny, leaving your window unlocked — as if the world were as gentle as you are. Now he can check up on you, take care of you, even when you’re sleeping. He can make sure nothing — no one — ever harms you.

“Hey, you,” he greets as you glide over to him, your footsteps nearly silent on the old wooden floorboards. He’s enamoured, utterly captivated, even by the way you carry yourself — an easy type of grace, a fluidity that moves like water, effortless and natural. You don’t strut or preen like half of New York’s clientele, the ones who come in with their noses in the air and their wallets open only for show. No, you’re different. There’s no pretence, no performance — just you, pure and unfiltered.

Your smile at the sight of him is enough to make him feel like he’s floating ten feet up in the air, weightless, buoyed by something brighter than hope. It’s equal parts lovely and terrible, that smile — so open, so trusting, so vulnerable. Because with a smile like that — any sicko could latch his claws into you, lure you in with false kindness and empty promises. The thought sends a cold spike of anger through him, sharp and immediate. Thank God he’s here to protect you, from all of them. To stand between you and the darkness, to keep you safe, to make sure that halo never dims, never fades.

He watches you, the sunlight catching the fine dust around you like tiny stars, and he thinks: I’ll keep you safe. No matter what it takes.