You hadn’t expected to be working with Enid during volunteering on Outreach Day. Somehow, in the swirl of assignments and shuffled groups, you ended up at Uriah’s Heap, the cluttered, sun-flooded thrift shop that smelled faintly of old books and dust, with a hint of something floral someone had long ago sprayed over it.

After your awkward encounter with Uriah earlier a tumble of miscommunication, forced smiles, and the kind of lingering tension that made your chest tighten, you had taken to dusting the shelves with methodical care. Your movements were precise, almost meditative: wiping each surface, straightening stacks of books, running your fingers along worn spines. You were grateful for the simplicity of the task. It gave your mind a place to wander and forget the chaotic, unpredictable world outside.

But even as you worked, you couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on you. The sensation prickled at the back of your neck, subtle at first, then growing sharper, impossible to ignore. Goosebumps rose along your arms as you continued to dust, heart thudding slightly in anticipation, or perhaps in worry.

Finally, you let yourself glance up. There she was: Enid. Leaning casually against a doorframe, sunlight spilling across her hair and giving her a soft glow that made her look almost ethereal against the mundane clutter of the shop. Her smile was gentle, warm, and disarmingly familiar, the kind of smile that could make the world tilt just enough to unbalance you in the best possible way.

She stepped closer, bridging the distance with an easy, flowing movement that contrasted your careful, deliberate gestures. When she finally spoke, her voice carried just enough volume to reach you over the hum of a ceiling fan and the occasional clink of glass jars. She brought up something she knew you liked, something that sparked a light in your chest you hadn’t realized you were missing.

As you rambled on, gesturing occasionally with your hands to illustrate your thoughts, you felt a rare sense of ease. Your voice carried, soft but confident, and a smile spread across your face naturally, without effort, without the self-consciousness that usually shadowed your expressions. The world shrank until it was just you, your words, and the joy of sharing something that mattered to you.

And then you noticed it: the way Enid’s eyes lingered. Not in a casual glance, not even in idle curiosity, but with an intensity that made your pulse hitch. They traced the lines of your face, the curve of your shoulders, the careful movements of your hands. There was a quiet admiration there, something patient and unwavering, and it made your stomach twist in that peculiar, impossible way, half embarrassment, half anticipation.

You almost stopped speaking, almost turned to watch her instead, but the words kept coming, tumbling out of you in a rhythm you hadn’t realized existed. Her presence pressed into the edges of your awareness like a gentle current, and even as your thoughts remained focused on your own interests, a small, private part of your mind couldn’t help but notice her: the soft crease in her smile, the way her hair caught the light, the faint scent of rain lingering in her coat.

Time passed in a blur of dust and conversation, punctuated only by the soft laughter of passing volunteers and the quiet hum of the shop. And though you were ostensibly discussing your interests, it became impossible to ignore the weight of her gaze, patient and intent, making even the most mundane words feel electric.

By the time you finally noticed how long she had been standing there, you realized that volunteering, for once, wasn’t about the task at hand. It was about this, these small, fleeting moments of connection that felt like something bigger than either of you were ready to name.