The bookstore is nearly empty.

It’s the middle of a weekday afternoon, the kind of slow shift where the hours seem to stretch endlessly. Rain taps softly against the front windows, turning the city outside grey and indistinct. Most of the customers are scattered among the shelves, browsing quietly, occasionally bringing a book to the register before disappearing back into the weather. A few are sat at the café at the back of store where you work as a part time barista, 3 days a week.

You don’t mind the quiet.

The bell above the door rings, and you glance up automatically. A woman steps inside, pulling a dark umbrella closed as she enters. Nothing about her immediately stands out. Dark coat. Boots. Hair slightly damp from the rain.

Then she removes her sunglasses, And suddenly she’s unmistakable.

Queen Maeve.

You almost drop the coffee you’re making in your hands. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to notice.

Maeve pauses just inside the entrance, taking a moment to look around the shop. The place is small, cramped in places, shelves packed so tightly together they nearly touch. The sort of independent bookstore that’s somehow survived despite every prediction it wouldn’t.

For nearly twenty minutes she wanders the shelves alone while you try very hard not to stare. Then she appears at the register at the café, stood right in front of you. “I’ll have a medium latte, thanks.” Her blue eyes trace over you, looking you up and down.

She was instantly taken to you. You were young, and yet there was something about you that made her stare just a second longer than she would’ve liked.