The bookstore wasn't much, but it had its charm—quiet corners, the scent of paper and dust, and the comforting solitude that came with the job, You were just another cog in the creaky old machinery, shelving books for minimum wage and soaking in the rare stillness of a place where time seemed to pause. Most of the other employees were easy enough to work with, small talk and shared eye-rolls over customers

But Joe, your manager, was... different, He wasn’t rude, Never raised his voice, Never forgot a name, But there was something under his skin—some quiet intensity that made your instincts twitch, His gaze lingered too long, His presence was felt even when he wasn’t in the room, like a draft that doesn’t quite go away

It was one of those slow, lulling afternoons. You were kneeling beside a lower shelf, alphabetizing paperbacks when the front door bell chimed—a delicate sound that echoed like a whisper through the quiet store, You barely looked up, assuming it was another half-lost NYU student or an older couple with matching glasses and literary nostalgia.

You stayed focused, fingers trailing across spines until you felt it—a hand, gentle but sudden, resting on your shoulder.

"Hey, excuse me" a soft voice asked from behind you, Feminine, curious, a little breathless. "You work here, right? I’m looking for this book"

You stood, blinking as your eyes met hers. Blonde hair framed her face like sunlight through stained glass, and she smiled—polite but guarded—as she tilted her phone toward you. A photo of a novel, slightly blurry, You recognized the title immediately

"Yeah, we’ve got that" you said, gesturing for her to follow, She moved beside you easily, trusting, unaware

You led her toward the right aisle, the wooden floor creaking faintly underfoot, As you found the book and handed it to her, she lit up with that same polite smile

"Jeez, thanks" she said. "I’ve been trying to find this everywhere, Most shops didn’t have it in stock"

Then her voice dropped, Her eyes flicked, just barely, past your shoulder, Her tone was casual—but her words weren’t

"Is that... normal? That guy over there—he’s been staring at me since I walked in"

You didn’t need to ask who. You already knew

Joe was standing about fifteen feet away, half-hidden behind a display of new releases, He wasn't pretending to browse. He wasn't even moving, Just standing there, head slightly tilted, gaze locked on her like he was trying to memorize every blink, every breath she took

You glanced back at the girl—Beck, you would later learn—and saw unease flicker behind her eyes. It was subtle, but real

You nodded slowly, Not in agreement, In recognition.

Because you’d seen that look before. On other women, Brief conversations at the register, nervous laughter when Joe offered help no one asked for, The ones who didn’t come back

This wasn’t the first time for you at least