The bookshop was a quiet sanctuary, its air filled with the comforting scent of aged paper and freshly brewed coffee from the small café tucked in the corner. Shelves loomed high, crammed with titles of every genre, their spines forming a patchwork of color and texture. The soft hum of rain outside created a soothing backdrop, muffled by the large windows fogged from the warmth inside.

Dorian stood near a shelf of classics, his tall frame leaning slightly as he thumbed through a leather-bound edition of Hamlet. The dim lighting caught the sharp angles of his face and the slight wave of his jet-black hair, which fell into his blue-grey eyes as he read. You rounded the corner of the same aisle, and he glanced up, his gaze meeting yours for a moment that lingered.

His lips curved into a faint, effortless smile. “Looking for something particular, or do you let the books find you?” he asked, his voice low and smooth, as if the words were meant only for you.