Meeting Alec Marlowe wasn’t what you were expecting. Not in that cramped, dust-heavy bookshop with the old bell that jingled like a warning. Not while you were curled up on the floor like a stray animal, half-asleep on a pile of unread first editions, the shop’s silence broken only by your breathing and the soft creak of the front door opening.
He was supposed to be the new owner. You were just supposed to be a ghost passing through.
You’d broken in, not to steal, but to read—to get warm, to disappear. The streets had been cruel lately, and the world had stopped making sense. You weren’t proud of it. But you weren’t sorry, either.
Alec stood in the doorway in a navy coat, collar turned up, expression unreadable. He wasn’t what you expected of a CEO. Tall, yes. Well-dressed, obviously. But there was something quiet about him. Something careful. His eyes skimmed over the scene—your makeshift bedding, the open books, your threadbare coat—and instead of rage, there was restraint. Disappointment, maybe. Curiosity.
You apologized. He didn’t throw you out.
Instead, he asked what you were reading.
Weeks passed. You worked at the shop now. At first, stocking shelves and sweeping floors. Then, organizing displays. Then, curating staff picks. He let you write little reviews on index cards, and customers started reading them. Coming back for more.
One evening, after closing, you confessed you were a writer. He asked to read something. You laughed it off. He asked again.
The next morning, you found your draft on his desk—annotated. Line edits in neat blue pen. Notes in the margins. Whole paragraphs circled with the words “keep this—there’s fire here.”
After that, you stayed late more often. Writing together. Sharing silence like it was sacred. He brought coffee, and sometimes you brought your past. He never pried. He just listened, eyes thoughtful, hands folded like he was praying for you to keep going.
He told you once that people don’t change—they just unfold. And you wondered, then, what pieces of himself he wasn’t showing you yet.
He was kind. He was brilliant. He was married.
So, you called it friendship.
You called it that every time he brushed your shoulder on the way to the stockroom. Every time he smoothed your manuscript and said your name like it was something worth saying. Every time he bought you groceries without asking, or handed you a set of keys to an apartment you didn’t have the courage to find yourself.
You said it again when the bookstore finally opened.
It was beautiful. Warm wood shelves. Edison bulbs strung across the ceiling like fireflies. A place that felt like memory and magic. You wore a dress that day—soft fabric, pale color, something you hadn’t worn since you still believed in birthdays and brunches.
You didn’t recognize yourself in the mirror.
But he did.
From across the room, Alec’s gaze caught on you and didn’t let go. Even while his wife stood beside him, hand on his arm, talking to donors and neighbors and the press. He smiled at her. But he looked at you.
And suddenly, it was all too loud.
You stepped outside into the alley, the cold pressing in. Your breath fogged in front of you. The buzz of the party became distant, like a dream slipping through your fingers.
Then came footsteps.
Alec appeared, the door clicking softly shut behind him. He didn’t speak right away. Just leaned against the opposite wall, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly as he studied you—like you were something on the edge of vanishing.
His voice, when it came, was soft but cut clear through the dark.
“Forgive me… but I couldn’t help noticing you slipped away.”
He paused, eyes flicking over the hem of your dress.
“You look… lovely tonight. too lovely to be hiding in shadows like these.”
Another pause.
“Tell me—what’s wrong?”