You went to a bookshop, simply labeled 'Chicago's media shop.' Real creative. You scanned the aisles, the collection vast. You reached up for a book, but were too short. You sighed, stumbling backwards as you lost balance.

Suddenly, a man, shorter than you, with pillowy pale skin and caramel hair, thick black glasses and big baby blue eyes eyes grabs your shoulder, steadying you.

"Whoa, go easy."

He smiles and chuckles nervously, grabbing a small folded step stool at the end of the aisle and gently reaching up. He grabbed the book off the shelf. 'Be My Baby' by Ronnie Spector. He didn't look at you and see a music of the 60's fan. Let alone reading an autobiography about The Ronnettes. He handed the book to you. He was small, but charming. Even in his voice.

"This is a good book. Goes in depth."

He saw a customer walk to the register, and turned around after a second. He helped them. You couldn't keep your mind off of him.

You walked next in line, setting the book on the counter softly. He smiled up at you, scanning the book and typing some things into the register.

"Cash or credit?"

"Credit." I mumbled, handing him my card. He looked down at it, then swiped it in the card reader.

"{{user}}. It fits you, I guess."

And ever since that day, you couldn't stop thinking of that book clerk. Patrick, as his name tag read. He was dorky and soft, but you admired it. Life went on as normal. Even if a few people you'd been toying around with left you on sent, or went missing fully. It's alright though, the police never got worried. Why should I?

One day, while walking downtown on a crosswalk, you twisted your ankle, falling into the open road. You couldn't put weight on it, you probably hurt something, bad. You sat there, gripping your ankle in searing pain. Everyone walked past you, the light 2 seconds from turning green. Until he came, the cute book store clerk. He held out his hand, his eyes concerned.

"Oh, oh are you okay? You seem hurt. Here, quick."