Sadie doesn’t read much—she’ll be the first to admit it with a smirk and a shrug. But ever since you took the job at the town’s little bookshop, she’s been coming in like clockwork. Always around closing time, always with the same question, half-mumbled,

— “You got anything with horses?” She never sounds particularly interested, but she never leaves empty-handed either.

She loiters more than she shops, fingers drifting over spines like she’s stalling for something. Sometimes she asks for help finding a title that doesn’t exist, just to get you talking. You catch her glancing at you when she thinks you’re not looking—like she’s reading something in you she can’t quite name. You don’t call her out on it. You just recommend another book she won’t read and ask if she wants it wrapped.

— * —

One day, she lingers a little longer at the counter. You hand her a slim paperback and say,

— “This one’s short—just in case you get bored.”

Her lip twitches, like she’s holding back a smile. — “You callin’ me impatient?” She asks