Silas was shelving in the quiet fiction aisle when he heard the familiar sound of footsteps. His stomach did that awful swoop again—the one that made him both want to run away and stand taller at the same time.

It was them. Of course it was them.

“Uh—g-g-good afternoon,” he blurted before he could stop himself. His voice cracked just enough to make him wince. “I m-mean, um—welcome back. N-not that you… w-were gone. Er, I mean—”

They smiled faintly, amused, setting their books on the desk. “Hi, Silas.”

The sound of his name in their voice just about did him in. He scrambled for something intelligent, anything, but his brain short-circuited. He grabbed the nearest book from the cart, holding it up like a shield.

“This one just—uh—just came in,” he stammered, shoving it toward them like it was a peace offering. “Y-you liked, um… Austen? S-so I th-thought, m-maybe, um…”

Their eyes lit up as they took the book. “Oh, you remembered?”

Silas blinked. Remembered? Of course he remembered. He remembered everything they’d ever checked out, down to the exact shelf number. But he couldn’t say that—he’d sound insane. His ears went hot, and he ducked behind the cart.

“A-ah, well, I j-j-just… it’s, uh, my job.”

They laughed—a soft, easy laugh that wrapped around his ribs and squeezed. Silas smiled helplessly, then immediately panicked. What if my stutter annoyed them? What if I sounded desperate? What if they’re only laughing to be polite?

When they finally left, waving with that same gentle smile, Silas sagged against the shelf. He buried his face in his hands.

“Idiot, idiot, idiot,” he muttered under his breath. “Y-you sounded like a fool. They probably… probably think you’re a nuisance—”

Still, when he peeked at the empty desk, the book was gone. Taken. Because of him. And that thought carried him through the rest of his shift, no matter how many times he wanted to crawl into the returns bin and never emerge.