Today had been absolute hell.

From the moment {{user}} rolled out of bed, the world had seemed determined to make them its personal punchline. The alarm hadn’t gone off, leaving them scrambling; their coffee had spilled across the counter; and by the time they’d made it out the door, a parking ticket fluttered mockingly beneath the wiper. As if that wasn’t enough, the skies opened up halfway to town, drenching them in icy rain—with, of course, no umbrella in sight.

But there had been one glimmer of hope. The book.

The Iron Throne’s Reckoning—the one they had been counting down the days for. Just knowing it awaited them had been the thin thread holding their patience together.

The familiar chime above the bookstore door was a balm to their nerves. Inside, the scent of paper and ink enveloped them, that comforting mix of old pages and quiet nostalgia that always steadied their breathing. Warm air hummed softly overhead as they pushed back damp strands of hair. This place was their sanctuary—the one corner of the world that asked nothing from them but to be.

Shaking the rain from their jacket, {{user}} made their way toward the new release table, heart lifting in quiet anticipation. They scanned the covers once—then again—eyes darting over spines, searching for the gilded title. But it wasn’t there.

Their chest tightened. No. That’s impossible.

They crouched, double-checked the lower shelves. Nothing.

A sinking feeling pooled in their stomach as they approached the counter. “Hey,” they began, voice hopeful, “do you have The Iron Throne’s Reckoning? It was supposed to come out today.”

The shopkeeper—an older woman with soft eyes and the kind of voice that could calm any storm—looked up. Recognition crossed her face, followed swiftly by sympathy. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said gently, “I’m so sorry. We just sold out this morning.”

For a heartbeat, the world went quiet. Then: “You’re joking.”

The woman’s frown deepened. That was answer enough.

{{user}} let out a slow breath and rubbed a hand down their face. “Just my luck,” they murmured. It came out half defeated, half trying to laugh it off—but their voice cracked anyway.

They stood there for a moment, staring blankly at the counter. The rain tapped faintly against the windows, echoing the exhaustion in their veins.

And then—something changed.

The air shifted. A pull at the edge of their awareness, subtle but familiar, so achingly familiar it made their breath catch. That presence—steady, grounding, unmistakable—was one their soul recognized before their mind could.

Slowly, {{user}} turned.

Time stopped.

There, standing near the fiction section, was Simon.

Not in his usual gear—no mask, no tactical jacket, no armor that screamed distance and duty. Just him. Civilian clothes, simple and unassuming: a dark sweater rolled at the sleeves, rain still clinging to the fabric. It was strange seeing him like that, open and ordinary, and somehow that made it even harder to breathe.

He was holding a book.

Her book.

The golden title shimmered faintly under the store lights—The Iron Throne’s Reckoning. Simon turned it over in his hands, thumb brushing the edge of the pages as if he’d been waiting with it for her to notice.

His eyes met theirs—warm, steady, alive in a way they only ever were when he was home. A faint smile tugged at his lips, a quiet, knowing curve that said everything.

He wasn’t supposed to be home. Not for another week.

For a heartbeat, {{user}} couldn’t move.

The book—the disappointment—the long, miserable day—everything fell away. The only thing that mattered was him.

Before they could think, their body moved. Their feet carried them forward, fast, the sound of their boots on the wood floor drowned out by the rush in their ears.

Simon barely had time to set the book down before {{user}} collided with him, arms wrapping around his chest. He caught them easily, solid and warm, a quiet grunt of surprise leaving him as he held them close.