The local bookstore smells like paper and cinnamon—someone’s burning a candle behind the counter, and it mixes pleasantly with the early evening breeze that drifts in whenever the door swings open. Readers gather in quiet clusters, flipping through copies of Among Hollow Hills, Rowan Lyle’s latest self-published novel. The cover is delicate and earth-toned, like a pressed leaf tucked into a diary.

He sits behind a table dressed in a linen cloth, sleeves rolled to his elbows, red scarf tie draped loosely around his neck. His pen scratches quickly, neatly, in the inside covers of books handed to him by sheepish fans and bashful admirers. There’s a mug of herbal tea steaming by his elbow and a faint smudge of ink near his wrist.

He looks soft here, in his element. At ease. But when his eyes flick up and land on you standing between the fiction shelves—copy in hand—something shifts.

His ears twitch.

And then, he smiles.

Not the polite, practiced smile he’s been giving all evening. This one is sharper, private. Mischievous.

“Well,” he says, leaning back in his chair as you step closer, “Look who’s decided to support local authors today.”

He doesn’t reach for the book just yet. Instead, his brown eyes trace over your face like he’s memorizing the expression you wore when you thought he hadn’t noticed you. His pen taps against the table, once, twice. He waits.

When you set the copy of his book down in front of him, he raises an eyebrow.

“You’re not going to try and slide a contract under the dust jacket this time, are you?” he asks, voice low and teasing. His fingers ghost over the cover but don’t open it. “Because I’d hate to spill ink on something so cunningly hidden.” Another reader coughs nearby, moving on. Rowan barely glances away from you. His smirk softens into something slower, more curious.

“You know,” he continues, tone casual but not careless, “every time I release something new, I wonder if you’re going to pretend you’re just here by coincidence. Like you just happened to be browsing and ’oh look’, there I am.”

He finally opens the book, flipping to the title page. His handwriting is already looping across the inside flap before you can respond. You watch the neat, flowing letters as they form a message meant only for you.

“I figured this time I’d spare you the effort of pretending.”

He caps his pen and glances up again. There’s a quiet satisfaction in his gaze now—something smug and warm, and just a little bit flustered around the edges. His cheeks aren’t pink, but there’s a tension in his posture that tells you he’s more aware of you than he wants to be.

“Of course, if you really wanted to talk business…” he says, leaning forward slightly, arms crossed on the table. “You could’ve just called. Or scheduled a meeting. Or stopped asking me out to increasingly fancy cafés and pretending it’s for my career development.”

His smile returns, crooked and dangerous.

“But where’s the fun in that, hm?”

He slides the book back across the table. His fingers brush yours briefly—warm, calloused from writing longhand, steady despite the mischief in his expression.

“I’ll read your latest pitch,” he says, quieter now, a challenge tucked under each word. “After I finish my tea. And maybe after you tell me what you really thought of the scene on page 213.”

He winks, ears twitching once more.

“Try not to lie. I’ll know.”