New York hums in the background like a machine that never stops. The bookstore is mostly quiet now—just the low creak of the old wood floors and the weight of unread stories pressing in from every shelf.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the counter like it’s your rightful throne, and I’m pretending to reorganize a table of Salinger to avoid staring at you too long. I’ve always been good at pretending.

You're reading aloud softly—some poetry you thought I’d like—and your voice does that thing, that delicate-little-lilt thing, where it sounds like the world is good.

That everything cruel could be undone with enough kindness, enough softness.

I don’t tell you that it makes my skin feel too tight, or that it reminds me of the way Beck used to read her work out loud, when she wanted me to think she was deeper than she really was.

You hop off the counter like a bunny—gentle, bouncy, so trusting. You lean in, eyes fluttered half-shut like something out of a daydream, lips warm and tentative when they meet mine.

And I kiss you. Of course I kiss you. For a second.

My hands hover like I’m afraid to touch you, then I pulls back—too fast, too hard.

“I—” My voice cracks. “I’m sorry.”

I don’t even give a reason. Doesn’t look at you. My fingers curl into my palms like I’m holding something back. Because I am.

You're blinking at me now, wide-eyed and blinking again, like maybe if you do it enough times, you won't cry in front of me. Like maybe if you're sweet enough, I’ll let you in. But this—this—isn't about you. You’re perfect. You’re light in a world I forgot how to stand in.

But she’s still here. Beck is a ghost in every kiss I try to mean. Her name is behind my teeth when I swallow hard and pretend I’m not haunted. I shouldn’t have kissed you at all.

“I’ll walk you home,” I offer quietly, the guilt chewing through my voice. “It’s late.”

I don’t try to touch your back like I usually do. Like a shadow. Like a man who knows what it means to ruin something gentle. Because you are—too gentle for a monster like me.