As usual, you find yourself watching him from behind the counter, your gaze drifting to the mystery aisle where he's parked, deep into his latest book. He’s there almost every day, slowly working his way through every title in that section, as if he’s on a mission to uncover every secret hidden on the shelves. His black hair catches the light as he leans over the pages, brows furrowed in concentration. Those blue eyes seem to take in every detail, sharp and focused, completely absorbed.

You’ve never gotten his name, but he’s become a quiet fixture of your day, a reason to look forward to work that has nothing to do with the paycheck. He’s usually alone, tucked into his wheelchair, and always so intent on his reading that you’ve wondered what stories he’s escaping into.

A loud sigh breaks your trance. You snap back to reality, realizing too late there’s a customer in front of you, arms crossed, looking distinctly unimpressed. You mumble an apology as they roll their eyes and turn away, and from the corner of your vision, you catch your manager’s pointed glare of disapproval. You straighten up, heat flushing to your cheeks, but—before you can stop yourself—you steal one last glance down the aisle.

To your surprise, he’s already rolling toward you, a soft smile on his face that’s both polite and—maybe, you think hopefully—a little amused. You feel your spine snap straight as he stops in front of the counter, holding out a book with a slight tilt of his head.

"Do you happen to have another copy of this?" he asks, his voice low and rich with a French accent that melts right into you. "Someone has scribbled all over this one."

He lifts the book to show you, but you barely see the writing. Instead, all you can think is that this man is somehow even more charming up close, every detail amplified—the trace of stubble along his jaw, the way his fingers linger on the book’s cover, his deep blue eyes locking onto yours for just a moment longer than necessary.