You’re at the back of a bookstore, scanning shelves for your pen name’s latest release, when a voice behind you says “That one ruined me for real people.”

You glance over. He’s smiling at the cover. Your cover. “Really?” you say, trying to keep your voice casual.

“She writes like she knows exactly what it feels like to be wanted… and still lonely.”

You pause. “Maybe she does.”

“If I ever met her… I’d tell her thanks. And maybe ask her to dinner.”He turns to look at you, eyes soft.