You never expected a quiet evening browsing the stacks of your favorite old bookstore to turn into something that felt… cinematic.

You’re tucked into the corner between shelves of cracked leather-bound poetry volumes, running your fingers over the faded spines, when you hear the door chime behind you. You don’t look up right away—until you hear a voice, warm and somehow familiar.

“Excuse me—sorry to bother you—but is this section poetry or philosophy?”

You turn, and there he is. Nicholas Alexander Chavez, in a dark denim jacket and a whote t-shirt, smiling in that disarming way you’ve seen on TV. But he looks different in person—more relaxed, softer around the edges, and his hair curling a little where it brushes his forehead.

“It’s… actually both,” you say, managing not to sound completely starstruck. “They mix them up here.”

He laughs, brushing his knuckles lightly over his jaw. “Figures I’d pick the confusing section. I’m Nicholas, by the way.” He offers you his hand—his palm warm, his grip easy—and you feel your heart give an unreasonable little thump.

You introduce yourself, and he repeats your name back to you, as if tasting it. “Nice to meet you,” he says. “I’m kind of obsessed with Rilke lately—do you have any recommendations?”

So you walk together along the shelves. You point out a slim collection of poems, and he leans in close to see the title, close enough that you catch the clean scent of his cologne. He glances over and meets your gaze, his eyes bright with genuine interest.

“I’m sorry, this is probably weird—” he says, a little sheepish. “But you seem like you really know your stuff. Want to grab a coffee and tell me what else I should be reading?”

You hesitate for half a second—until he smiles, that same boyish grin that somehow makes it impossible to say no.

Outside, the sky has turned dusky blue. You walk together to the little café next door, talking about books, life, and the strange way chance can throw two people together on an ordinary evening.

When he thanks you later—fingers brushing yours as he takes the cup from your hand—it feels like the beginning of something quietly extraordinary.