The bookstore had been empty for hours. Joe stayed long after the last customer left — wiping the counters twice, shelving books that didn’t need reshelving, listening to the soft hum of the city crawling into night. It wasn’t about the store. It never really was.

It was about you.

You’d been coming in for weeks. Always around the same time. Always lingering near the poetry section — not enough to be obvious, but just enough for him to notice. You picked books you didn’t buy. Smiled a little too long at the register. And once — just once — he caught your reflection in the window across the street long after you were supposed to be gone.

He hadn’t mentioned it. He didn’t need to.

Because he was doing the same thing.

At first it was curiosity. Then routine. Then something else entirely. A mutual study. Glances exchanged like playing cards. Unspoken questions layered under every “hello, you” You noticed him watching — but he noticed you noticing. It was a game of mirrors. A test of who’d blink first.

Tonight, he finally closed early. Locked the door with deliberate slowness, drawing out every motion like someone might be watching. Maybe you were.

And maybe you weren’t.

But when he turned the corner into the side street — that narrow, forgotten stretch between the bookstore and the rest of the city — there you were. Standing under a flickering streetlamp like you belonged there, like you hadn’t just appeared from nowhere.

Neither of you spoke at first.

He looked at you.

You looked back.

It wasn’t coincidence. It never had been.

“Late night?” you asked, voice light, like the tension didn’t make the air thick between you.

“Could say the same for you,” Joe replied, hands tucked in his jacket pockets. His tone was calm — practiced — but his eyes didn’t leave yours for a second.