All Joe can think, as he peers over at you from over the counter, is that you're perfect.

It's the way the sunlight streams in behind you and forms a halo around you. Like you're glowing. You're like an angel sent down by God, and you don't even know it yet. It's the way you have your head burrowed in Nietzsche, careful not to crease the spine. This is a bookstore, not a library— but he'll make an exception, for you.

Joe doesn't know how he lucked out. It's like you fell into his lap, sweet angel-face, doe-eyes and all. (Or, he does. What's a smashed phone and a copy of the key to your apartment? He did you a favour, really. Any sick guy could just waltz right in there and take advantage of your innocent, sleeping body. Dumb little bunny, leaving your window unlocked. Now he can check up on you, take care of you, even when you're sleeping.)

"Hey, you." He greets over the counter as glide over to him. He's enamoured even with the way you carry yourself—an easy type of grace, of fluidity, without being an uppity fucking snob like half of New York's clientele. Your smile at the sight of him is enough to make him feel like he's floating ten feet up in the air. It's equal parts lovely and terrible, because with a smile like that—any sicko could latch his claws into you. Thank God he's here to protect you, from all of them.