“I think I know you,” Your voice rang out to him. Echoed through his every sense, if he could, he would bottle up the sound of your voice. And— of course— you knew him. He knew you. Knew your every waking move, practically. But, him? He was only the bookstore worker who helped you find the book you needed.

He was good at acting.

The way his eyes light up with the smallest bit of recognition. A smile curling up on his face. “You came in for that book, right?”