Chapter Text
You remember thinking he looked like a pool noodle. Tall and wiry, all arms and legs but no real body shape that didn't fall into the category of 'stick'. He was like the abnormally long fry on a plate of short ones; that wasn't to say he was tall - everyone seemed tall to you - but he stood out among the others like a grey hair.
He was looking in the 'Non-fiction' section of the bookstore. No doubt something like IT or Biology - you'd seen him around school a few times, but only a glimpse on the corner, a glance of the back of his head as he left the study rooms. Up close, this personal, you could see every detail of his face. The way he licked his lips every so often - you're sure you saw a flash of metal in there, braces? - the way he flexed and cracked his fingers subconsciously while searching the shelves. You weren't 100% sure of his ethnicity, but even so he was beautiful to look at. A mix of angelic and burning electrics; the guy was breathtaking.
Your description was more than ironic; you were standing in the 'Romance' section and holding more than you could carry.
But you still stared at him, the geeky guy with the dumb 3D glasses just oozed appeal. How could you not? When was the last time you had any romance in your life?
You walked into a shelf.
A bang, slam and shuffle later and all but one book had fallen to the floor with a fluttering pile of pages. You hoped to God that none of them had torn or had their spines broken; you weren't planning on buying them all. As you slunk to the floor, embarrassment threatening to take your life, you heard laughing. It wasn't even an attractive laugh either, more like the laugh of someone who hadn't heard a joke in four centuries. Like you, then.
"You could at least fucking help me," escaped from your mouth before you could even process the thought. It suddenly occurred to the reason you were so lonely.
Instead of even speaking, instead of saying something like, "Rude! I'm going to go complain about you to a shop assisstant!" the guy's long fingers scooped up the books by their covers. You were NOT going to wince at the fact he could be further torturing the books into eternal pain. No, you weren't.
"What the fuck kind of books are these? Rom-coms? I can't decide if that's funnier than you actually dropping them in the first place."
Oh yeah. That was a lisp, and those are - blue and red braces?
"Fuck off, these books are the shit. Don't even get me STARTED on the emotional depth they hold."
You winced, and so did he.
You stood, and so did he.
He handed you the books, you turned your back on him, and he did the same to you.
Talk about an awkward first impression; you don't think you've ever been so ashamed to call yourself a romance expert when you can't even apply the knowledge to your own life.
It wasn't until you got home and opened the first book on the pile's cover and found a torn piece of file paper with a squiggle of blue ink in the corner and a chumhandle written in red. Your heart stopped and you think you might need medical attention.