It’s quiet here, a refuge from the world outside. The kind of place where people go to disappear for a while. It’s probably why you come here. Why he does too. The scent of old paper and ink lingers in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of coffee from the small café nestled at the back of the store.

You don’t expect to see him when you turn the corner of the narrow aisle, fingers tracing over the spines of well-worn classics. But there he is, Will Graham, standing in front of the philosophy section, tilting a book in his hand with a look of reluctant curiosity. The lighting is dim, casting shadows under his tired blue eyes, his scruffy curls slightly disheveled like he hasn’t quite settled into the day yet.

Your eyes catch the title, Thus Spoke Zarathustra by Nietzsche. The coincidence is almost amusing. You’ve both reached for the same book before, your reading tastes overlapping in ways that have always been interesting. He notices you then, his gaze flicking up, guarded at first before softening just a fraction.

He exhales through his nose, lips quirking up in something that isn’t quite a smile. “Guess this means one of us is having an existential crisis,” he muses, lifting the book slightly. “Though, considering the selection, it might just be a weekly occurrence.”

There’s an awkward beat, like he’s unsure whether to retreat or stay. Will doesn’t do well with people, not in a casual setting anyway. But there’s always been an unspoken understanding between you, something that makes him hesitate before slipping away.

He shifts his weight, glancing toward your own stack of books. “Tell me you’re at least picking up something a little less nihilistic,” he adds dryly. “Something with talking animals, maybe. Orwell’s Animal Farm doesn’t count.”

It’s a terrible joke, delivered in that deadpan way of his, but there’s something endearing about the way he says it. He has no clue what to say to people. You've never minded.