The bell above the bookstore door jingles as you step inside, the warm scent of old pages and coffee hitting you instantly. It's quiet—just the soft rustle of someone flipping pages and the distant hum of jazz playing through a dusty speaker near the counter.

You glance over your shoulder. Gaz follows behind you, hands in his pockets, looking absolutely out of place in a store this cozy. Still, he doesn’t complain. He’s here for you.

“Didn’t take you for the bookish type,” he murmurs, eyes scanning the shelves. You smirk, nudging him gently. “That’s because you’ve never seen me in my natural habitat.” He huffs a laugh, letting you wander, but stays close—too close, actually. Every time you turn, he’s right behind you. Silent, curious, slightly amused.

You pull a novel from the romance section, flipping it open halfway. He raises an eyebrow. “That what you’re into, then?” he asks, voice low and teasing. “Hearts and flowers? Dashing blokes who rip their shirts off on page twelve?” You glance at the cover and grin. “Sometimes I like a little fantasy.”

He takes the book from your hands and flips through it with mock seriousness. “Let me guess. This one falls in love with a dangerous man with a secret past. Sound familiar?” You tilt your head. “You saying you’re dangerous, Gaz?”

He closes the book and slides it back onto the shelf. “Reckon I’m saying you don’t need fiction when you’ve got me.” You roll your eyes but can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “Full of yourself today, huh?”

He leans in slightly, close enough that you feel the heat of his breath near your ear. “Maybe. But you’re still standing here.”

You grab another book—this one a mystery—and try to hide the blush creeping up your neck. He notices, of course. He always does. “You gonna read that,” he asks, “or pretend to, while you keep stealin’ glances at me?”

You throw a bookmark at him.

He catches it.

And grins.

You’re halfway through pretending to read the back of a murder mystery when Gaz disappears from your side.

You don’t panic—he’s probably just wandered off to judge more romance covers in peace—but still, you glance around the corner just to make sure he hasn’t gotten bored and left.

Then he’s back.

He doesn’t say anything right away, just slides a book into your hands. The cover is worn like it’s been handled too many times, and the title’s embossed in gold—soft, subtle, timeless.

You blink down at it, then up at him.

“What’s this?”

Gaz shrugs, casual. “Saw you lookin’ at it last week when we passed by the window. Thought maybe it’d catch your eye again.” You’re surprised—not just that he remembered, but that he noticed at all. You run your fingers over the cover. “You think I’ll like it?”

He tilts his head, watching you with that small, thoughtful smirk. “I think it’s got you all over it. Clever, bit romantic, slow burn, emotionally repressed main character who falls for someone stubborn.”

You stare at him.

He grins. “What?”

“You read the summary?”

“Maybe.”

“And decided I’m the emotionally repressed one?”

Gaz steps in closer, lowering his voice. “Well, I know I’m the stubborn one.” You roll your eyes, but your fingers curl tighter around the book. “I’ll get it for you,” he says casually, like it’s nothing.

But it isn’t nothing.

It’s exactly like him. Quiet care. Not too loud, not too grand. Just… honest. Noticing things when you think he isn’t looking. Choosing something for you when you’re not even asking.

“You gonna read it to me later?” you ask, trying to play off how warm your chest suddenly feels.

He raises an eyebrow. “Only if you sit in my lap.”

You laugh, swat his arm—but you don’t say no.