Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

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“Sorry, we’re closed!” you called out when you heard the bell by the door ring as it had opened and closed. You were stood high upon a ladder, leaning against its frame to steady yourself as you restyled shelves on the back wall behind the counter, putting newly released books into place. 
  
“Oh sorry, I was just… looking for a mensroom?” an awkward voice spoke behind you.
 
You grabbed hold of the wooden slats in front of you before carefully looking down over your shoulder. 
  
Joseph Quinn.

You recognized him instantly, and you could see how he looked slightly panicked as he stepped away from the entrance, pressing himself against the side, almost hiding from street view.

You weren’t sure what to say, but you were instantly aware that if Joe got any closer to you, he could easily see right up your skirt.
   
“This is a book shop,” you said pointedly, but when you saw a group of girls holding out their phones rush past your store, you softened. You put two and two together quick enough. “But we have one in the back,” you nodded your head towards the narrow hallway that lead into the breakroom that was closed off by a door with a sign that read ‘personnel only’. 
 
Joe looked up at you and just stood there for a second, frozen in space, his face blank and his mouth slightly agape.

Gawking.

You could feel a blush creep up your neck and you smiled before letting an embarrassing chuckle escape your throat, breaking Joe’s trance.
  
“Thanks so much,” he managed to say after clearing nothing in his throat, and he rushed towards the back. You were sure he’d find the bathroom by himself, the probability of him getting lost was naught in your little tucked away store in a quiet side street.
  
The only reason you were still in business, you knew, was because your bookstore was the exact opposite of a WHSmith’s. Your darkly stained wooden bookshelves reached all the way up to the high ceilings, not a surface in sight that wasn’t covered in literature. Two big old armchairs that had seen many relaxed, reading bodies stood by the window, facing each other. Quaint. Old-timey. Victorian, if you squinted.
   
If you weren’t the first choice for people to come to for books, you were at least a great Instagram snap location, a quirky hang out for the quiet girls or even the perfect spot for a first date. So, you’d leant into it and had fully embraced the vibe you knew people were after when visiting a tiny little book shop in the city centre of London.
 
Whilst Joe was in the back, you realized the outdoor A-frame sign was still out front, even though you’d already turned the sign on the door over to closed. You climbed down the ladder and quickly made your way outside to bring it in. You couldn’t help but check both ways down the street for the girls you suspected were after selfies with Joseph. They were gone, and you smiled to yourself, happy to have been of service in his escape. 
 
Stepping back inside, you were struggling your way in past the heavy door, not enough hands or strength to carry the sign and hold the door open at the same time. You could see Joe step out of the breakroom and walk back into the shopfront. When he saw you struggling, Joe immediately shot to help with the heavy sign, taking it from you in a swift move before you could even tell him that you didn’t need the help. 
 
“Oh- thanks,” you mustered. 
 
“Where do you want it?” 
 
“Down by the till’s fine,” you pointed, and Joe set it down exactly where you’d normally keep it. You gave him an awkward smile when he turned back to you.
 
“Thanks for letting me use the toilet,” God, this man was gorgeous. His hair was blonder than you thought it was from having seen him on TV. 
 
“Of course,” you smiled, and you couldn’t help but feel slightly mesmerized by his eyes. They were almost breathtaking in real life, you thought. When you noticed Joe warily check behind you to look outside the window, you grinned to yourself. 
 
“They’ve gone, coast is clear.” You stepped around Joe who you saw visibly relax to your words.
 
You were ready to get back to your duty, plenty of upper shelves still empty and piles of books on the counter that needed to make its way up there. You thought about how tonight you were going to call your mum and tell her how famous actor Joseph Quinn had come into the shop and had used your toilet. How he had been so kind to help you with the A frame. No hint of an ego as he’d graced you with a couple of minutes of his presence.
 
You expected to hear Joe say goodbye, or to even just hear the bell of the door that he’d open to leave, but you were met with silence when you stepped back onto the ladder. Not fully trusting it, you turned to look back at him and saw him staring at a stack of books on the surface behind you.
 
“Whoa,” he said, taking one from the top and giving it a closer look. “This looks beautiful.”
 
You smiled and stepped back down, not minding Joe’s loitering in your closed business.
 
“They’re gorgeous, aren’t they?” you moved some books about to show him more covers. “These are part of Levente Szabo’s ‘Great Books Project’, they’re all classics, but these covers are just… something else. They’re not new, but we didn’t have these ones in yet,” you explained.
  
“This one’s my favourite,” you pulled a copy of Blindness by José Saramago out and showed it to him. The fully black dust-jacket showed an illustrated naked woman on the front with hands grabbing at her from all sides. To you it conveyed part of the story so perfectly, you’d immediately taken a copy for yourself. You were very aware that it wasn’t how running a bookstore worked, but you hadn’t cared.
  
Joe took the book from you with careful fingers that briefly brushed yours in the transaction. He didn’t need to do that, you thought. Joe scanned the cover of the book with great attention and you took a moment to quickly study his face, his body language, through narrowed eyes. If you could read him, you decided you would. You’d read him like you’d read a poem. 

You would always find yourself awestruck at poems. Sometimes it would take you a while to understand, or to find meaning, the words a mystery to you at first. But you almost always found their wordplay beautiful. They would invite to find deeper meaning behind them. Yes. You agreed with yourself. You’d read Joe, like you’d read a poem. 
 
“I know you said you were closed, but…” Joe didn’t move, but his eyes shot up to look straight into yours. His eyebrows followed questioningly as he held out the book to you. Was this a way of flirting? Surely not, don’t be daft.
 
You took the book from his hands and turned towards the till, powering it back up. “Have you read this one already?” you asked, more so to just fill the silence than anything else. The book was a classic, after all. “Not yet, I’ve seen the film though. It’s a great story,” Joe reached a hand into his back-pocket, you assumed for his wallet, and you grinned to yourself. “Of course you’ve seen the film,” you said softly, mostly to yourself, and Joe wasn’t sure if you’d just given away that you knew exactly who he was, but he decided he wasn’t going to press it.
 
“This place is pretty… whimsical?” Joe said as he peered around, eyes traveling up the shelves. “Thanks, I try.” You said, hinting that the shop was yours and you didn’t just work there as an employee.
 
“Harry Potter-ish.” He concluded. 
 
“I’ve got those with some redesigned covers too, if you wanted to have a look,” you smiled at him coyly, knowing you were pushing your luck with your sales-pitch. It made Joe laugh. I made Joseph laugh! You could barely hold in the giddy excitement you felt pushing up your throat as you scanned the barcode to ring Joe up.
 
“Fuck,” your face suddenly fell when you realized.
 
“I’m sorry,” you winced, both for swearing, and for the news you were about to deliver. “These aren’t in the system yet.” You tapped the book in front of you. “They’re not for sale until tomorrow.“
 
You made sorry eyes at Joe as he dropped his head in defeat. But he was quick to whip it back up. “No worries,” he took a step back and swung his arms wide. “What time you open tomorrow? 9?” Joe guessed. 
 
You stared at him, your facial expression blank and unwavering. 
 
“10.” You corrected him. 
 
“Alright,” he nodded slowly. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow. At 10.” Joe kept taking backwards steps towards the door. 
 
“See you… tomorrow?” the words left you mouth in utter state of confusion at what was happening. Joe shot you one last smile before turning and leaving out the door. The second the door shut, you let your knees buckle and you dramatically fell to the floor, disappearing behind the counter. 
 
How was anyone going to believe what had just happened? 
 
You caught your breath for a second, replaying every word spoken and every look shared in your mind. Surely, you had to be dreaming. Or at least, reading into things too much. Yes. That was probably it. He’d just been a kind customer. Nothing special. Just some dude. Nothing to write home about. Nothing to read home about.
  
You stood back up and wiped down your skirt but froze immediately when you saw Joe through the window, standing outside the door still, a wide grin pulling at his cheeks. 
  
Oh no.
 
You buried your burning face into your hands before peeking at him through your fingers. He laughed, and so you laughed too. You were such an idiot.
  
Joe gave a small, last wave and turned on his heel with a small hop, truly leaving this time. And as if on cue, your phone rang. You quickly checked to see who it was before answering immediately.
  
“Mum, you’ll never guess what’s just happened,”
  

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Joe was sat in one of the armchairs by the window, one ankle crossed over his knee, his spread wide.

He held open a book with one hand, strong fingers, as he was writing things down in a little notebook he held on his lap with the other.

His tongue was curled up in his focus where it softly caressed the left side of his top lip.
  
Without saying anything, you placed down a steaming mug of coffee, black, as you learned Joe liked it, on the side table next to him. Nothing fancy, just a brew from the machine in the breakroom you weren’t technically allowed to serve to customers. But he had sat there for an hour, reading and writing, and you liked his quiet company.
  
Joe’s eyes found you once he finished whatever he was scribbling and gave you a polite tightlipped smile by ways of saying thanks for the drink. From any other person it would’ve felt insincere, but Joe’s eyes were warm when he looked at you. He hadn’t asked for anything to drink, but he didn’t need to.
  
He had been deep in his concentration, doing important research, Joe would always call it.

The first time his behind had found the plush seat of the armchair, it had been busy in the shop as a little group of tourists had found your store and had come in to mainly marvel at the stacks of shelves. You didn’t have the time to pay him any mind, but Joe hadn’t come all the way to the store just for you be too busy to attend to him.

“Tell me if I’m in the way and I’ll go,” he had called over to you before sitting down and opening a book.

He had spent over two hours reading there that day, and from then on, sometimes he would just come in and use your bookstore as if it were a library, occasionally buying the book he’d been reading to take home.

And you had told him, “There’s more books and better seats to be sat in at actual libraries, where you don’t need to pay to take the books home, you know?”

But Joe had been quick to disagree, casually listing several reasons why he thought your bookstore was a cut above any public London library.
  
“They don’t serve such good coffee there.”  

"The ambience won’t be right for my research.”

“There’s other people there.”
 
That last one had made you laugh.

“Fun way to hint at bankruptcy, love that for me.”

It was Sunday and Joe had come in a little after you had opened you doors. Sitting in the window as he was just now, you knew the bastard had dressed to fit the scene. Dark. Academic. Mysterious, if he didn’t smile. It was a very handsome sight, and you were sure if people were to walk past and look into the window, they could mistake him for decoration. All he was missing was a rounded pair of glasses perched up on his nose, but he fit in fine without them too. You wondered if you could sneak a pic.
  
It had been a few months since Joe had made his way back into your store after your first meeting. When you had opened your doors at 10 that next morning, flipping the sign at the door to ‘open’ before unlocking, Joe had already been waiting outside.
 
"Good morning,” you had said as a smile tugged at the corners of your mouth.

You’d stalked directly over to the till and were about to ring Joe up for his copy of Blindness successfully this time when he stopped you.

“Do you mind if I have a look around?” Joe had said, already looking, hands tucked deep into his pockets, eyes trailing down a bookshelf with his head cocked to the side to read the spines.
 
“Of course,” you'd felt stupid for rushing.

“Take your time, let me know if you need anything.”
  
And then you had continued opening up shop. The A frame found it’s spot back out front on the pavement, and displays were checked and straightened if needed.
 
It hadn’t taken long for a stack of books to pile up in Joe’s arms, and when you saw him trying to climb up one of the wooden ladders that gave access to the higher shelves above, you had kindly taken them from him to place them by the till alongside his copy of Blindness.
  
You remembered how the air in the shop had felt thick then. But you were sure it was just because you kept forgetting to breathe properly. 

Joseph Quinn was in your shop, and he was looking at all of your things. You had cursed yourself mentally for not knowing how dusty it really was up where he was pulling books from shelves to read the blurbs on the backs of them.
  
When the door had opened and another customer had walked in, you were surprised at your mixture of feelings. 

Don’t intrude this moment, can’t you see Joseph Quinn is attentively taking his time picking out books to take home? Whilst, at the same time the giddy thought, oh my God, a potential new customer! crossed your mind.

So of course you had smiled at the customer warmly. The woman would’ve never been able to tell part of you didn’t want her there.

“Good morning, how can I help you?”
  
When you had finished collecting books for the woman’s son’s reading list for school, Joe had made it over to the other side of your store, two more books in hand. You'd wished your new customer a nice day as she left, and then had taken a look at the selection of books Joe had already picked out.

You remembered being surprised by the wide range of genre.
 
“I’m usually great at working out what someone’s like from what books they enjoy,” you had started.

Joe hadn’t looked up at you at all, his eyes going over a lower shelf now, but you could see him smile.

“But this is kind of all over the place.” you had inhaled sharply and had shaken your head, almost annoyed that your skill had seemed to falter.

“Not to challenge you any further but, I’ll add The Alchemist and Neuromancer to my purchase.” Joe had placed them down in front of you as he had read out the titles.

You furrowed your brow at them, trying to somehow decipher the additions.

You couldn’t.

“Did you find everything you were looking for?” you hadn’t liked the way you automatically fell into your customer-service-voice.

“I did, thank you,” Joe had copied your tone, mocking you slightly, and it made you huff out a laugh.

As you scanned each barcode, Joe had explained that he was getting most of the books as gifts for family members, friends. It explained the miss-matched choice of literature. And when you held Blindness, he had commented that that one was just for him and it had made you grin.
  
“Can’t wait for you to finish it, you’ll find it’s better than the film.”  

You’d made eyes at him, and it had tickled him into laughter. It was a sly dig, but also a hint at wanting to see him again, even if it was just to hear his thoughts on the novel.

“I’ll warn you though,” you slipped the books into a brown paper bag. “The style of writing takes some getting used to, and there’s not much character development, but it’s gorgeously captivating.” you spun the bag so the handle was facing Joe. “Thought-provoking. You’ll see.” And you’d leant your arms wide on the counter, hanging into your shoulders, smiling at Joe through pursed lips.
 
Joe had paid, had thanked you, and had left.
 
Mentally you’d cursed at yourself for not having had the balls to have snuck a bookmark into his bag with your number on. But maybe that would’ve been too forward. Joe knew where he could find you now, so all you could really do was hope he’d come back at some point in the future.
 
And Joe had come back.

Quicker than you had thought he would.

It was only the next day, the third day in a row of seeing him, when he had come in just before you were about to close.

You had just tipped a full mug of tea over yourself, and were using a rag to feverishly blot it out of your white top when the bell from the door had startled you.

It was Joe, and he seemed in a rush. He hadn’t let go of the door-handle and just hovered in the entrance, his weight mostly on the leg that had stepped the furthest into your store. You had seen other people behind him, waiting for him out on the pavement.

“You were right. It was better than the film.”

You had just stared at him, frozen in place, rag pressed up against your wet chest.

Stunned.

You weren’t sure what Joe had meant when he pointed a finger at you with one eye closed before turning on his heel and rushing out, waving at you through the window as he walked past it, his friends joining him in his step.

You were sure about something else, though, and you remembered what your next thought had been: I think I love him.
 
And now you watched Joe work from your spot behind the counter, enjoying a sip of your own coffee, just taking in the sight of him. Oh, how you wanted to be able to just sit down in the chair opposite him and bury yourself in a good novel as well. To be closer to him. You were sure your knees would almost touch if you did. You’d just be in each other’s silence, no other sounds filling the air other than your breathing, the occasional turning of a page and the scribbling noise of his pen to the paper.

“It’s rude to stare,” Joe suddenly said, turning a page in his book, not even looking at you. You felt it was a way to signal he didn’t mind a chat, happy for some distraction after having been left to his own devices since he’d gotten in.

“What are you doing research on?” you asked, genuinely interested. Joe had small illegible handwriting, you couldn’t for the life of you read what he’d been writing down. Not with the distance between the two of you anyway.

“Top secret.” Joe said, after taking a sip of coffee and pursing his lips as he swallowed which turned to a smile when he looked at you.

“How intriguing.”

You left a silence, hoping it would coax Joe to fill it. It worked.

“I honestly can’t say,”

“From the books you’ve gathered, it must be a period piece,” you observed.

You saw Joe’s eyes wander to the hardbacks he had plucked from your shelves and he showed a little concern at your first guess being correct.

“If you please could adjust your handwriting to be a little larger so I would actually be able to read those notes, you won’t get another question out of me,” you held both hands up in defense.

It made Joe close his notebook and put it down completely.  

“What’s it to you?” Joe narrowed his eyes at you suspiciously, his lips pursed still, trying to hide his smile. He put his coffee mug to his mouth, which helped.

“Just showing some polite interest in the man that’s been hogging a seat in my store for the past hour and a half,” you didn’t tell him you’d just finished watching all episodes of the mini series Catherine The Great, just because it featured Joe.

“How kind of you, but I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to reveal anything.” He said, eyes crinkling at the corners because he was in love with you, as it so happened. Not that he was planning on saying anything, or revealing that the sole reason he didn’t do his research online like all other sensible actors, was because of you.

Joe finished his coffee and checked his phone for the time. A small gasp escaped his lips, his eyes big as he quickly got up. For a second you saw him contemplate something, turning to grab his notebook and then eyes on the books he’d been reading. He seemed late for something, time forgotten as it had slipped away from him.
  
“I’ll get those,” you left your spot behind the counter, moving to collect the books and place them back on the shelves where Joe had picked them up earlier.
  
“Sorry, I won’t make such a mess next time.”

It was hardly a mess.

Joe didn’t move from where he stood, forcing you to get a little too close for comfort when reaching over. Joe smelled the perfume on your skin as the air fanned past him.

“That’s okay,” you said, collecting the books and making your way back to where you’d been standing.
 
“I’ve just- I’ve got a thing,” Joe explained as he stalked towards the exit, not really revealing anything. That was okay, he didn’t owe you an explanation.
  
“Can you leave those out for me?” Joe said quickly before opening the door. “So I won’t have to search for them again tomorrow?”

Tomorrow.

You grinned, but were fast to let out a deep sigh. “Library.” you pointedly said, giving him a look that made him laugh in defeat. But you left the books neatly stacked on a ledge, making sure Joe could see that yes, you would leave the books out for him.
 
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Joe said it like you were old friends, his head bent down slightly as he spoke before opening the door behind him and stepping out.

And you counted your blessings, happy Joe had found safety and comfort in your little space instead of following your advice and finding a much more convenient way to get the information he needed.

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Sometimes a few weeks would pass, and you wouldn’t see Joe at all.
 
Every day that would crawl by without him visiting, you’d be surer that you wouldn’t see him again. That he didn’t need to read or buy more books. Because when you really thought about it, he was really  just  another customer, wasn’t he? One that would linger around for longer when he’d come by, sure, but had you ever had a real conversation between the two of you? Most of the time he would spend in your presence, he’d be silently reading. And you’d let him.
   
But he was so  pretty. And you missed having him around. It was a little like missing a house cat.  
 
A house cat you liked to flirt with.

You had gathered from the short interactions you’d had with Joe that he understood that you  knew  who he was. You hadn’t outwardly confirmed anything, never calling a spade a spade. But he had to have known, you were sure of it.
 
He never really mentioned anything himself. He had referred to his work as his job, the way  everyone  does, never going into further detail because  why would he with the lady who ran a bookstore he sometimes bought books at?

So, it felt like an unspoken understanding that floated in the air between you when he was there, and you kind of liked it that way. It hadn’t really connected you, but it felt rather cute.

You had never formally introduced yourselves to each other either. When you thought about it, the only way Joe could have picked up your name was from a friend of yours calling out for you when she’d walked in one day and hadn’t seen you straight away. She had come by to drop something off, and her body had tensed when she had seen a stranger in the store, just there, by himself, altogether too relaxed, like he owned the place. She had made wary eyes at Joe when you had replied loudly from the breakroom.

“I’m in the back!”  

It had forced your friend to come find you, leaving Joe alone in the storefront once again. She didn’t trust the situation in the slightest. Strangers had potential to be bad news. They could  take  things when left to their own devices.

“There’s a man out front,” she had hissed at you as she’d stormed in.
 
“That’s  him.” You’d hissed back, carefully pouring coffee into two mugs, looking at her with big eyes and pursed lips.

Of course you had told her about Joe. How could you not have?
 
“That’s  the guy from Stranger Things?!” she’d been entirely too loud.
 
“Oh my God,  shut up  he’s going to hear you!” you scuffled quick to close the door behind your friend, giving the two of you more privacy.
   
Even though it had been a hushed conversation, Joe had heard every word you said and had secretly smirked to himself.

When you’d walked back out after a minute, followed by your friend, all three of you acted the conversation had never happened. Joe had pretended to be deeply entranced by his book, a finger softly playing with an open page he wasn’t reading, his ears perked.

But the chat you had with your friend whilst you helped her pick out a birthday gift for her brother had been casual. Something about a website, you politely declining an invitation to a party even though someone who apparently really liked you was hoping you’d stop by, and she had shown some photos to you on her phone.

Joe had glanced at your friend and had seen she was holding the coffee mug you’d normally give him. It had bothered him that the sight of it had bothered him.
 
You’d been right. Joe knew  that you  knew him from that very first day, and you hadn’t  exactly been very  imperceptible  after that.

 There was hardly a way around the small comments you’d make, but in your actions, you had treated him like he was just a plain dude. Just  some guy. And Joe hoped that any of the extra attention you did grant him, like the space and time you allowed him to dawdle, or the hot mugs of coffee you’d silently place beside him, wasn’t just granted because of his profession or his status.
 
It was a slow Wednesday afternoon when you were busy unboxing new arrivals. Joe had walked in, big steps, like he was on a mission. His absence had been nearing in on a month.  When you laid eyes on him, you noticed his hair was slightly longer than you remembered it.

Curlier now, especially around his ears.

You liked it. 
 
“Hey!” you greeted, recognition and surprise unmistakable in your voice and you immediately regretted not greeting him like you would a normal paying customer. You had fully convinced yourself over the past few weeks that that was all that he’d be to you, even if you wished for it to be more than that.
  
“Hey,” Joe said back, not breaking eye contact with you while he reached for a book on a shelf on his side, and you felt the air shift slightly when he handed it to you.

“I’ll have this one.” Joe hadn’t even seen what he had given you and he looked at you like a giddy schoolboy. He seemed a little out of breath, not quite panting, but his breathing was loud through flared nostrils.
 
A little confused, you took it from his hands and checked to see what it was.

“Oh, uh, I think you’ve bought this one already, when you-” you were cut off by Joe quickly picking up another random book.

“This one, then.”
 
His grin seemed somewhat wild to you, and you saw his neck was flushed. You squinted at Joe, your brow furrowed slightly. He deserved suspicion for his actions, but you told yourself again; Joe was merely a paying customer and so you refrained yourself from questioning him and rung him up.

When handing over Joe’s purchase along with his receipt, he had taken the book and had held it high above is head in his right arm like a trophy he had just won as he had walked out. You struggled to understand any of what that transaction had been and hoped Joe would come back the next day so you could confront him about it.

You  had  to.

Joe was a poem too difficult to read and you couldn’t stand it. You had an inkling it was because you were missing some pages and felt a deep urge to get a hold of them.
   
He hadn’t come in the next day.

Or the next one after that.
  
You hadn’t seen Joe again for 17 more days, not that you were counting.

Except you definitely were counting.

This time though, it had been different. His little stunt had done something. It had pushed him right into the forefront of your mind and he had just lingered there, like he’d linger in the front of the store. Quiet. Minding his business. Having a sip of coffee. Not really bothering anyone, but still very much  there.
 
A Saturday afternoon.

A very busy Saturday afternoon.

You felt slight panic at the number of shoes taking steps along your floorboards, and the amount of hands fondling book covers all around you. It was really about to overwhelm you, you were just one person. So it felt like a Godsend when your mother stepped through the door with your granddad closely behind. 

Perfect timing.

The bookstore used to belong to your granddad before he retired and had passed it on to you.  He had been heartbroken when he had learned his own daughter, your mum, didn’t want to work at the shop alongside him when she was younger. Sure, when she’d been a teenager, she’d help out sometimes when she was needed, but she had no aspirations of taking over the business like he had hoped. So, from the moment you were born, your granddad had done everything in his power to make sure that at least his granddaughter would love books the way that he loved books.
 
After you had taken over, he would very sporadically, and only if your mother had the time to take him, come over to the store, just to check.

Check on the shop.

Check on the books.

Check on you.
 
You were happy to see that your mother knew her help was required. You hadn’t even properly said hi before she had jumped in, leaving your granddad to find an armchair by himself to marvel at the bustling around him, the shop full of noise.  
 
You had no time to worry about your granddad – new people would come in before enough people had the chance to leave and make room. You weren’t sure if you felt more anxious or excited, but you had chosen the latter for yourself and made sure to keep a smile on your face so your body would believe it too. This is what a successful bookstore was meant to look like- was meant to feel like.

With plenty to be done, the time flew by.

Your mother and you had fallen into a good routine; you’d greet the customers, bag up their books and your mother worked the till. If anyone had any questions or needed any help, you were quick to dart their way, leaving your mother to work the counter by herself. You knew you left the work in capable hands with her, she was almost better at it than you were. You knew she would disagree. Your mother always stood in awe of how you could hear the title of a novel or the name of an author, and you’d know if you had it in stock from the top of your head. And if you did, you’d know exactly where to find it, climbing up on ladders, crouching down in corners – you’d locate them without fail.  

The queue in front of your mother had started to get a little too long to properly be classified a queue still, the floor space of the store far too little square feet for one. You stood to the side and assessed the chaos when you suddenly spotted Joe on the other side of the store from you.

He ascended up a ladder, lifting himself from the small crowd of people who were waiting for your mother to ask them to step forward next.

It felt like he wasn’t meant to be there.

Not now. 
   
Joe was meant to be there on quiet mornings, or on calm rainy afternoons. Joe was meant to sit silently and let his eyes glide over words, his mind elsewhere and not there in the room with you. Joe was meant to be there when you had the time to leisurely brew him some coffee. When you had the time to aimlessly stare at him as you pretended to work out how the sticker-application-tool worked. You hadn’t seen Joe’s face in 17 days, and this man decided to come show it off at the worst possible time, the fantasy of him ruined.
 
You saw Joe’s eyes search along a top shelf, and then he looked down at something.

No, someone.

He pointed at a section he’d never really looked at before with raised eyebrows in question.

Was he helping a customer find something?

His attention returned to what was in front of him, and when he selected a big, leather-bound book, you knew exactly who had sent him up there. 

Touché, you thought. Fantasy restored.
 
You took a step to the side to omit some customers and found a line of sight that ended at your granddad. He was sat in the chair where Joe would usually sit, forcing Joe to now sit down in the one opposite.

Joe handed him the book he’d gotten for him, and leant forward in his chair, elbows on his knees spread wide, attentive to whatever your granddad was telling him. From the choice of book, you could guess their conversation.  
 
It was the exact copy of the one book your granddad would already be holding onto when you’d stop by after school when you were little. There had only been one armchair then, and he would hoist you up onto his lap, and read to you from the big book of fairytales and folklore. It was the sole reason you loved reading as much as you did, and why that book was the only book in store you’d never sell.  

“Excuse me, do you work here?” you didn’t get the chance to ogle at them for long.

“Yes ma’am, how can I help you?”  
 
When the waters had steadied after the big storm, your mother and granddad had left. They’d been there far longer than originally intended.

Your granddad had looked at you so proudly, and said that she looked good, alive and kicking. The store, he meant.

After saying goodbye, you noticed that Joe had also gone. You didn’t know when he’d left, you’d been too busy and you hadn’t seen him leave.
 
You started the task of restocking shelves, knowing it would take you extra-long today after you had a good look around. Some shelves had big empty gaps, the books still there fallen over, piling on top of each other like dominoes.

Not expecting many more people to stop by, you were startled when the door had opened again.

But it was only Joe.

And he’d brought baked goods.
 
“Care for a croissant?”

The way he pronounced croissant the correct French way had only made him sound more British to you.  
 
Your first thought was to decline it because it was the polite thing to do. But if you were honest, you were starving, so you accepted the one he held out to you.

It could have been a romantic moment, making eyes at Joe as you both took bites of delicious pastries, but unfortunately you had the rush of work in your body. With a croissant held between your teeth, you picked up a heavy box of books, getting straight back to what you were doing.

It left Joe to reclaim his familiar position, in an armchair, with a book.  

You hadn’t really given him the chance to get very far down the first page, though.

Joe watched as you dangerously balanced up high on a ladder, stack of books under your arm, your other hand feeding you bites of pastry before reaching to organize fallen-over books that you tried to hold up whilst also placing new copies next to them.

He didn’t mind his view; his eyes were free to roam your figure as he so pleased. He would lie to himself and pretended the reason he’d stare at your ass for so long was just because it was in his natural line of sight. You know, if he tilted his head right.

But he envisioned you dropping books, losing balance, falling down the tall ladder, and he hadn’t been able to let you fumble up there by yourself.
 
“I’m not going to watch this go wrong,” Joe concluded aloud, slapping his knees as he got up to help you.  
   
It wasn’t much later when you found yourself looking up at Joe from under a ladder. You were stood in his shadow as you passed him one book at a time, in order, so he could place them on shelves the way you intended to do yourself.

Joe’s body leant against the wooden slats and strong arms swiftly took book after book from your hands. You did your very best to act like this was a complete normal position to find yourself in, but you felt how your chest had gotten splotchy, and heat had risen up your neck into your cheeks.  
 
“It’s bad luck to walk under ladders.” Joe said, making light conversation, fully aware his crotch was only inches removed from your face. 
   
“If that was true, I would’ve gone bankrupt ages ago.” You joked.  
   
It was a quick and easy job when there were two pairs of hands involved. You’d done a task like this countless times before by yourself, and it was always a balancing act.  

“That shelf next?” Joe pointed before stepping down until his feet found the floorboards.

Your ladders didn’t have fancy wheels or rail systems they hung onto. You’d simply have to pick them up and plonk them down where you needed them. So Joe did just that, moved the ladder to where it needed to be and climbed back up until he was eye-level with a shelf half-empty.  
 
“Those ones need to come down so I can get the order right,” you explained, entirely abusing the helpful hands Joe had lent you. He’d simply learn not to offer again, you thought, not feeling guilty at all.
   
You spent a minute taking books from Joe and handing him others to put back in the empty spaces. It was an effortless back and forth.
   
“Your granddad’s a wise man,” Joe suddenly spoke after he had carefully considered mentioning it. He almost felt like it was an intrusion of your privacy, but the silence between you hadn’t felt awkward, and he felt it’d be okay to at least be up front about meeting him.  
  
You smiled at his acknowledgement of your favourite family member. He was right; and even if he hadn’t been, your granddad looked like a wise man, he’d easily fool anyone. You wondered what things he had told Joe about you. Or what Joe had told your granddad about himself.
  
“He is.” you confirmed and you didn’t want to add anything else, aware that enough boundaries between the two of you had been crossed today. Meeting family members, bringing in comfort food, and now helping you do your job. None of it bad, but there was such a thing as too much of something.
 
“Sat in my chair, though.” 
 
You scoffed. 
 
“I think you’ll find that you’ve been sitting in  his  chair.” 
 
Without warning, the image of Joe holding the randomly selected book he’d bought that day, 17 nights ago, high above his head as he had walked out of the store crossed your mind.  
 
“Last time you were here,” you started, your hands straightening out books, pushing them together tightly to fit another one on the shelf at your eye-level as Joe did the same on a higher one.
 
“You practically tossed a random paperback at me and left right after.”
 
“Oh yea,” a smile spread across Joe’s face as he thought back to the moment.  
  
“Yea,” you paused and looked up at him. “What the fuck was that?”  
 
It made Joe laugh.
 
“That was a rough day. We’d been filming on location, and I had maybe 5 minutes in London before I had to leave for the next.”  
 
You stared up at him from your position under the ladder, slightly bewildered. It explained the time frame perfectly, but you were trying to read between the lines of what Joe was saying, trying your very hardest not to misinterpret them.

But then Joe decided to just say it. 
 
“And I missed this place, so I stopped by.”  
  
Missed this place.

It could’ve been a cautious way of saying that he had missed you, but it also could’ve been the honest truth. It was a compliment none the less and Joe’s confession floated its way into your chest where you decided to keep it, close to your heart. 
 
“You know, you could have just come in to say hi… didn’t need to buy a book you hadn’t even looked at.”  
  
“I spend a lot of my days waiting around at my job. I needed a book.” Joe justified.
 
And even though you wanted to argue that, if he had needed a book he could’ve picked one up from a million other places closer to where ever he had to be that day, where he would’ve had more time to pick something he’d actually like, you didn’t mention it.  
 
Joe had missed this place, and so he’d come to you that day, and that small piece of sweet, soft information was enough to shut you up.  
  
After that crazy Saturday, you’d been quick to hire someone to help you at the weekends. If you hadn’t felt like a business owner before, getting an actual employee had certainly done the trick.  
 
Anne, 17, quiet and in need of extra cash like all teenagers were.  
 
Anne was the type of person who didn’t smile politely when you made eye-contact and would instead offer sarcastic remarks and eyerolls, sometimes death stares depending on what you asked of her. But she would always listen carefully when you explained what needed doing, nod, and then she’d get to it without a fiber of enthusiasm in her being. It felt perfect; customers wouldn’t bother her because she wasn’t approachable at all, which left her to her work and she got things done quick. 
  
It had been a little awkward when you tried to explain to her that there was this guy who was a regular, as if your shop was a dive bar and Joe would come in for his daily fix of alcohol, and she wouldn’t have to pay him any mind when he was around. 
 
“Some days he just comes in and spends a little time in that chair, reading," 
 
"Is he your boyfriend?" 
 
"No," 
 
"That’s weird then." 
 
It had made you laugh. "Yea,” you agreed. “But he’s not a bother." 
  
The first time Anne had seen Joe enter your shop, she had looked at him for a moment and you, in turn, had studied her face, looking to see if she recognized him as Joseph Quinn, the actor. Then she turned to you.

"He looks like my cousin.”

Okay.

So, she didn’t.
  
“I’m Anne,” she had then loudly said to him from her spot, a bored expression on her face, and Joe had frozen as he was about to sit down, bum hovering above the seat.

“Joe,” he’d replied a little disarranged. Anne had then just continued working.

You had chuckled lightly to yourself when Joe shot questioning eyes at you, and you’d shrugged at him as if to say  yea, I don’t know either. Anne was odd, but you’d take her over any other person for your first ever employee.

After a somewhat boring Sunday, one that seemed to drag on too long, Anne was doing inventory when you decided to rest your feet for just a second. A dangerous game to play, and you had immediately lost. It had only taken you about half a minute to nod off.

Anne had let you snooze, she didn’t need your help looking at numbers, until it was time for her to clock out. She was about to wake you, when she was interrupted by Joe who pushed open the door carefully, eyes looking up at the little bell to make sure he wouldn’t trigger it as he slithered his way in. 

“We’re closed.” Anne deadpanned. “And she’s asleep." 

Joe had seen you napping from outside, hence the watchful entrance.  
 
"I know,” he simply said, his voice just above a whisper. “Have you finished your shift?” he asked, as if he had any authority over her.  
 
“Can you let her know I made full hours?” Anne wasn’t there for smalltalk, and she swung open the door neglectfully, triggering the bell before she stepped out. Joe winced as you stirred in the armchair at the sound.  

“Okay, bye Anne,” Joe’s voice flat and clearly annoyed that his earlier efforts to be quiet had been in vain. 
 
You stretched out your arms in front of you as you lazily gained consciousness, trying to rid the ache in the muscles of having had them still for too long.
  
“Hey,” Joe spoke softly, his voice soothing, and he moved to sit down opposite you.
  
You sat up with a grunt and blinked your eyes wide, untangling your eyelashes, unsure of your whereabouts for a split second. “Whoa,” you hadn’t meant to fall asleep, obviously, and you felt incredibly groggy, almost hung over.  
 
You looked around, in search of Anne, eyes darting to the clock when you didn’t spot her. 
 
“She’s just left,” Joe said, and you looked at him, not fully registering him being there.

“She made full hours, told me to tell you.”
 
Joe had sat back and had sunken into the chair, one leg crossed over the other, comfortable, like he was in his own home, and you contemplated to yourself if this felt too intimate. Too weird, like Anne had pointed out to you. Joe picked up on it instantly.

“I hope I’m not overstaying my welcome,” he perked up, ready to get up and leave if you said the word. 

“No, it’s fine,” you weren’t totally present yet, head still hazy with sleep. 

What was Joe doing here?

“I’ve got a business proposal, but it this doesn’t seem like the right time to discuss it,” Joe got up and put his hand on your knee. You would’ve jerked at it had you not been somewhat out of it still. He did it so smoothly, tapped his fingers there lightly and just as quickly removing them as he stepped past you, and towards the door. It was a casual move that friends could make. But you weren’t exactly friends, were you? Joe was crossing more boundaries, and although puzzling, you didn’t want him to leave yet. 
 
“No,” you turned in your chair. “I’m here, I’m awake,” you softly slapped two hands against both your cheeks a few times in an attempt to fully wake yourself up.

“I can talk business.” you said, more to convince yourself than to convince Joe. 
 
Joe pondered for a second, his hand already on the door-handle. But then he stepped back and sat back down, perked up in the chair, and you looked at him expectantly. 
 
“So,” Joe started, shifting even further forward in his seat.

“You know how I’m an actor,” Joe said, awaiting a reaction he then didn’t get from you.

Were you meant to act impressed? Like you hadn’t known?  There was no social ladder you had ever hinted at wanting to climb that you could use Joe for, and Joe found it refreshing. 

You just blankly stared at him, mostly because you hadn’t been this close to his face before and saw lines you hadn’t noticed before. They really added to his charm, his character, you thought. 
 
“And sometimes,” Joe carried on, smiling at your unperturbed attitude. “Actors have to do-  get  to do… actory and flashy things.” Joe corrected himself. Everything in his career had been a privilege, he was very aware of that. Something in your eyes changed slightly. It was barely noticeable, but Joe saw. If there was anything you weren’t interested in, it was things  flashy. Things described glamorous really gave you the ick. 
  
“And there’s a real possibility you might  hate  it, so don’t feel pressured to humour me, but-" 
  
"Get to the point.” you stifled a yawn with a chuckle.
 
“Would you consider your store to be the location for a shoot?"  Joe made a face at you, an expression one would make when considering something, hoping you’d copy it.

"Photo or video?” you were quick to ask, knowing you wouldn’t allow a video shoot. It would most likely involve too many people, more clunky apparatus, and even though you knew the store would look  fantastic  on screen, you were too protective of it to risk things having to be moved around or breaking.
 
“Photo. For a magazine. The photographer is a friend of mine, and we had a location secured but it fell through and I thought this would be-”
 
“If it won't be scheduled on a Saturday, then sure." 
 
"It’ll be scheduled on a Saturday." 
 
You narrowed your eyes at Joe. Was that a joke? His expression told you no.

Saturdays were your best income days, especially with Anne helping out now. You’d get customers serviced way faster and you’d make more sales than practically the rest of the week combined. 
 
"What if I say no?” you challenged Joe.
 
“Then I’ll give your number to the photographer to talk you into it.” Joe’s lips crept up into a smile.
 
“And if I say yes?”

What you meant was,  how much money is this going to make me?  Would it be worth giving up a Saturday’s worth of sales?
 
“Then I’ll give your number to the photographer to set it up.” Joe quipped, and it made you drop your head down and laugh in defeat. 
 
You rolled your neck and groaned softly, head rounding out to the side and you reached for the pen you saw on a side-table.
 
“Mr Quinn," 
 
Joe let out a small playful gasp at the sound of his name coming from your mouth.

You had just officially called a spade a spade.

Another boundary crossed. 
 
"If you’re after my number, you could’ve just asked."   

...

...

“I’m sorry I haven’t told you earlier, but we’re not opening next Saturday, so you’ll have the day off,” you handed Anne a boxcutter.

“Why?” she immediately put it to use and ripped it through thick cardboard.  

“Some people rented the store out for something.”  

“Like a wedding?” Anne started taking books from the package and handed them to you to lay them out in the store window, dressing it to your best ability.  

“No, it’s for a photoshoot for a magazine. They want to use the store as a backdrop.” You tried your very best to remain ultra-casual about it, but you’d lie if you said it wasn’t a little exciting.

“What magazine?”  

Oh. 

You realized you had no idea. You’d only contacted the photographer and had just discussed practicalities.  

“I’m not sure actually, but they’re paying enough to still give you a shift’s worth, even though you won’t need to come in.” You wanted to be a good boss and pay Anne what she had expected to be getting at the end of the month.

“I could still come, help out where needed?” Anne shrugged. Her hard exterior sometimes let some softness slip through. Never much, though.  

“I wouldn’t know what you’d be needed for to be honest, it’s just going to be Joe and-”  

“Joe?” Anne interrupted. 

Fuck. You slipped up. You had hoped you wouldn’t have had to get into any detail. You really enjoyed how Joe had anonymity in your store and having to fill Anne in could absolutely ruin that. You mentally kicked yourself for it.  

“Yea, and maybe four or five others, I think,”  

Please don’t press it, please don’t ask any further questions. 

“Is he a photographer?”  

“No,” you sighed. “He’s the one they’ll be taking the photos of.”  

“For what? Joe’s ugly.” Anne tossed the empty box aside to grab a new one, ripping it open swiftly. 

You let out a hearty laugh at Anne’s face. It wasn’t quite displaying disgust, but definitely some hefty confusion. She was so very openly not impressed with him, you loved it. You realized then that, actually, it didn’t matter if she knew. You trusted it wouldn’t really change her opinion of him. 

“Joe’s an actor. And he’s considered… known? Sort of?” 

She didn’t really respond, but you could see gears turn in her mind.  

“Do you watch a lot of TV? Films?” you tried.

“No.” Anne stopped what she was doing to look at you. “I read books.” she deadpanned. Like it was obvious.  

“Yea, that… makes sense.” You looked at her through narrow eyes and then decided it really did.  

Anne ended up accepting she wouldn’t have to come in next Saturday, and you didn’t speak of the matter again.

You had a good look around the store, imagining how it would look through a camera lens. You thought maybe you could get Anne to neaten some shelves, make the place look more presentable, but then had decided against it. Anne could maybe do some extra dusting, but that’d be all.  

Saturday came around fast.  

They had shown up early in the morning, and you had welcomed them in, giving them free range, all access, to set up for the shoot.

Joe wasn’t with them and you assumed he’d show up once they were ready for him.

You hadn’t known where to stand, afraid you’d be in the way as four men roamed around, placing lights, unfolding tripods, moving the ladders - someone brought in a full rack of clothing and more things from their car outside… it was a lot of kerfuffle and you had silently retreated to the breakroom to escape it.

They had put music on, and you had really liked their selection. Bear’s Den, Ben Howard, Mumford & Sons and the like filled the store.

It was nice.

You had to move your laptop to the very edge of the table when someone, you assumed the stylist, used it for products – hair and make-up. Then shortly after the clothing rack found its way in too.  

The door had been left wide open as they walked in and out and it let in a nice breeze you could feel all the way in the back where you were sat. You could hear small beeps and the shutter of a camera from test shots they were doing, and you kind of enjoyed how these strangers had gotten to work with so much comfortability in your store, around all of your things.

“What do you think?” You heard Joe’s voice outside. He had arrived. “Isn’t it so good?”  

You felt your heart swell when you heard the enthusiasm in his voice as he spoke about your store to one of the other guys out by their car, just outside of the entrance.  

“It’s actually better than the other spot we had in mind, well done,”  

The one that fell through, you thought.

Had it really fallen through, though? Or had it been an option, something they had discussed as a possible location until Joe had suggested your bookstore? You thought you were doing Joe a favour when you agreed to this, but now you had your suspicions. Maybe one day, if you had the balls, you’d confront him about it if you could remember. 

You weren’t sure why, but seeing Joe walk in and greet his friends in there made you feel a little out of place. Shy, almost.

He had gone out of his way to find you, just to give you a smile and say hi and your stomach had done flips.

About an hour later, the shoot really got going. Joe was practically dressed like a librarian, a little too on the nose for you, but he looked good. 

Hot.

You had stationed yourself back in the breakroom after having stepped out shortly to give Joe space to get ready, and you were trying your best to get some administrative work done. You really could use the day to catch up on the more boring things.

But then, after a little bit, Joe walked in and invaded your space, along with who you gathered was the stylist for this occasion. Before you even had the option to politely excuse yourself so they could have the room for Joe’s wardrobe change, Joe was getting undressed, entirely unphased by your presence.  

You made sure to keep your eyes firmly glued to your laptop screen, thinking that maybe if you stayed really still, they wouldn’t see you. Like meerkats would do, except you didn’t exactly blend in with your surroundings.  

Right. Focus. 

Orders.

You needed to look at what books to order.

But you were a victim to your own ardour and flicked your eyes up to look at Joe. You could see the muscles of his arms move under his skin as he stuck them into a shirt. Then cuffs were rolled up, and you thought to yourself how men rolling up the sleeves of a shirt really was the most non-sexual turn on you could think of. That, and men reversing cars and putting their arm ‘round the back of the passenger seat as they’d check over their shoulder.

Oof.  

Then you caught sight of the body-hair on Joe’s torso as the stylist started buttoning the shirt up and you involuntarily cleared your throat in reaction, calling unwanted attention to yourself.  

“Coffee?” you asked when two pairs of eyes found you blushing in your seat, and you quickly got up and turned to the kitchenette to hide your burning cheeks.

The day was long, and it dragged on a bit, you thought.

You had been standing outside to look in through the window as they were taking photos of Joe up on one of the ladders. It was perfect; you were out of their way, got some fresh air and could look at Joe from the point of view of the photographer. You were leaning against the window frame, arms crossed in front of you, the reflection of the sun on the window slightly obscuring your view, but somehow adding to the surreality of the moment. 

They really had seen every last inch of the store; you were sure this would be the last set of pictures they would take.

The photographer pointed up at Joe as he told him to grab a book to pretend to read. You saw Joe carefully reach for one, and your breath hitched in your throat when you saw him take hold of the one book in your store you’d never sell. 

And Joe’s eyes found yours through the window, twinkling eyes, all smiles, and you could feel yourself slipping, falling deeper in love with him, unable to deny it now. 

“Careful,” you whispered a warning to your heart. “Careful now.”

The next day, Joe had come in and sat in his spot. He’d brought in his notebook again, and you gathered there was more research that needed doing for a job. It felt a little weird after having seen him as the focal point of a professional photoshoot the day before. Joe had been actor Joseph Quinn in here. And now he was the bookstore’s regular silent reader again, like yesterday never happened. 

Anne had bluntly told Joe she had googled him.

“You have?” Joe spoke to her like she was a six-year-old, eyebrows raised high, his lips pulled into a small smirk, but not looking up from his writing.

It granted a laugh from you. Anne had in response just looked at him, blank faced, and then she had looked at you the same. No further words were spoken on the subject. 

It had taken a little while for Joe to see any of the photographs taken, but when he had received a couple of them in an e-mail, he had slapped his laptop shut to take it with him to show you.  

He was almost skipping down the street towards the store, excited for your reaction. He didn’t need you to see him in the photos, he needed you to see how whimsical and kaleidoscopic your store looked in them. 

But when Joe passed the window of the bookstore before getting to the door, he noticed that it looked uncharacteriscally dark inside.

And when he wanted to open the door, ready to lean into it with his full body weight, he was abruptly stopped. 

Locked. 

The sign on the door read closed.

Joe peered inside, but it was empty. He then checked his watch; ten past four.

Closed on a Friday afternoon.

Weird.

Maybe you had just taken a day off. Joe had never thought about your work schedule before, and realized that since meeting you, you’d been open every day of the week.

It had never crossed his mind that you didn’t get days off, which obviously now, it made sense that some days the store would be closed. You deserved breaks like any other person. Joe just didn’t like that it meant he wouldn’t get to come into his favourite place. And without warning too.

A little disappointed, Joe decided then that he’d come back the next day. He could show you the images then.

The next day, Joe had gone back, and it had just gone past ten.

Still closed.

But on a Saturday?

Something wasn’t adding up, Joe thought. Could he text you and ask? He did have your number now, but he hadn’t used it yet.

Joe decided against it.

For now.

Maybe later.

He had gone for breakfast somewhere, got his coffee fix someplace else and he hadn’t liked it. After that, he decided he’d walk by the store once more, just to check, in case you’d just been a little late opening that day. 

But he could see it from a fair ways away: still dark inside. No A frame out front.

When he got closer, he saw that something had changed, though.

An armchair seemed to be missing, and when he finally stood right in front of the window, Joe saw you.

You had turned one of the armchairs away from the window, so it was now facing into the store, and Joe could see the top of your head peeking out just above the backrest. He tried taking a few steps to the left, and then to the right, but there was no angle for him to see your face or to catch your attention.

All he could see was that you had curled up, settled deep into the plush cushions, a throw blanket over your lap and you were reading a book you were halfway through already.

For a second he toyed with the idea of knocking on the window, but then he saw you pull your sleeve over your hand, and bring it up to your face to press it firmly into your cheeks, blotting both sides.

You were crying.

Joe then realized you had probably turned the chair away from the window for a reason, and he didn’t want to intrude. He could show you the photographs another time, when the store would be open, and when you wouldn’t be wiping tears from your face.

Joe hoped that the reason for your tears had just been a sad book. That nothing else had happened that was bad enough for you to not open up shop.

He lingered by the window entirely too long, he knew. But he didn’t want to leave. You were crying. And even though you had kept a somewhat professional distance from Joe, all he really wanted to do in that moment was comfort you and make it better. 

And then you had gotten up from your seat, and Joe watched you, messy hair and comfortable clothes, disappear into the back. 

When you walked back out, carefully clutching a mug of steaming tea with both hands, you saw him.

Joe.

He was just standing there, his face inches away from the glass and it had stopped you in your tracks.

For a second, you just looked at each other, your cheeks tear-stained and chest still spasming from crying, actively hyperventilating still, but trying your best to struggle through staying calm and you saw deep sympathy etched into Joe’s face. 

Joe knew from the moment he laid eyes on your face that it couldn’t have been just a book. Something was wrong, and every fiber in Joe’s being screamed at him to fix it.

You didn’t know what to do, but when Joe nodded his head towards the door, you made your way over to unlock it.

Joe was allowed in, you decided.

“You’re closed.” Joe said when you opened the door for him. You nodded; glad it wasn’t a question that needed an answer from you. Joe felt his chest tighten when he heard how erratic your breathing was. 

“I was looking for a mensroom.” Joe reminded you of the first time he’d walked into the store months ago. You couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth a little, your eyes still wet. 

“We have-” your stuttered breath interrupted your speech. “We have one in the back.” You replied the way you’d done back then and stepped aside to let Joe in, locking the door back up behind him.

“Can I…?” Joe didn’t finish his question but took hold of the armchair that was still in the window and pushed it to place it next to the other one. And then he had stepped toward a display, had let his eyes scan over a few books before picking one up and sitting down.

There he was.

In your granddad’s armchair.

Quiet.

Reading.

Just there, exactly where you needed him.  

...

...

You were both sat in the big armchairs, now placed side by side almost in the middle of the store, with books in hand and eyes scanning words.

Your stuttering breath hadn’t ceased yet, and Joe was paying close attention to it. Every couple of breaths, you’d spasm on an inhale and it was the most heartbreaking lone sound that filled the room. 

It was nice that you weren’t sat opposite each other, you thought. You didn’t have to look at each other now. There was no awkward eye contact, and you didn’t feel watched by him.

With your backs towards the windows, your view was just books and it felt like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

It was just the two of you for now, and you felt comfort in Joe being there just like a house cat that would curl up in your lap when it noticed you were in a bad mood. Except you couldn’t exactly pet Joe. Although, you wouldn’t be opposed to it - those curls looked all fluffy, so soft.

You were both silently reading, or at least trying to.

You had just been staring at the same page for a while, not able to work your way through the words. Maybe you shouldn’t have come into the store today, maybe it had been a great mistake. The shelves felt both a cruel reminder and a warm embrace, almost too painful a combination. 

When Joe heard your soft sobs pick up pace, he turned his head to look at you.

You looked so fragile, so small. So far removed from the flirtatious sunny disposition he knew of you.

Joe saw the tension in your jaw, and how you were white knuckling the book you were holding. 

He didn’t want to make you any more uncomfortable by asking if you were okay, because obviously you weren’t. Asking you what was wrong, why you were crying, didn’t feel right either.

Entirely unsure of what to say, he had remained silent. There had to be something else he could do for your comfort.

Then, Joe offered you his hand.

He moved his lower arm to splay over the armrests, wrist up and palm open. You looked at it for a second, blinking tears into your eyelashes. Joe then impatiently tapped his knuckles against the leather twice as his fingers stretched out more, motioning for you to grab hold of them.

And so you did.

You slowly slotted your fingers together, and Joe closed his hand around yours, squeezing it tightly.

It helped.

Joe soothingly started rubbing his thumb slowly over yours and turned his attention back to the page he was reading.

After a while, when he felt all tension had slowly faded from your hand, Joe let go of his grip to let his fingers play with yours. He traced the lines in your palm, twirled his fingertips around yours and drew lines down the lengths of them, all the way down to your wrist and back up.

You let you head rest against the back of your chair and gazed at your hands slow dancing around each other. It was hypnotizing and reduced the anxiety you felt in the pit of your stomach.

“My grandfather died two days ago,” you revealed the source of your pain and your eyebrows immediately scrunched up when you heard yourself say it. You folded your free arm over your face, nose pushed into the crook of your elbow as you cried.

Joe’s mind went back to the image he had stored away in his mind of your granddad that day he met him in your store. And he was sad for you.

“I’m sorry.” He didn’t know what else to say.

When your sobs grew louder it prompted him to take a strong hold of your hand again, hoping it would have the same effect it had before. 

“I thought-” your breath hiccuped and left you a painful expression.

“Breathe,” Joe cooed, squeezing your hand in his.

“I thought being here would help,” you blinked your eyes up at the high bookshelves that surrounded you, thick tears escaping them. “He’s in the walls here.”

“He’s in the books.” Joe added and you looked at him.

He wasn’t smiling at you, but his expression had been so warm. So soft.

He had been right. The books were exactly where your granddad was.

Joe understood. 

Your eyes trailed back to look at Joe’s hand clasped around yours. You used your sleeve of the other arm to wipe the underside of your nose.

“What did you talk about, with him?” you had wondered ever since you had gotten a little glimpse at their conversation in those same chairs. 

Joe’s lips curled into a smile thinking back to it. He shifted in his chair to turn his body more towards you, and you did the same, hands still firmly holding onto each other, your tears still hot on your face. 

“There were so many people here that day,” Joe reminisced. “But when I stepped in and saw the one empty chair, your granddad had immediately invited me to sit down.” 

You tried to imagine what words he would’ve used. 

“First thing out of his mouth was that he used to be the owner.” Joe stared into space as he spoke.

“But now the store was doing much better because his granddaughter had taken over, and then he had motioned around at all the customers,” Joe used his free arm to mimic the movement, and you recognized your granddad’s proud expression in Joe’s face. He was painting you a clear image of how he remembered him.

You let yourself sink into your chair more, legs curled up, the side of your head against the backrest and one hand securely holding onto Joe's.

Your lips trembled as you listened to Joe, and you decided you were glad you’d come into the store today. It had not been a mistake. 

“He explained how he tricked you into it,” Joe said, and he looked at you before looking up over your head.

You knew what he was looking at. 

“Told me to get it for him and showed me the tale that got you.” 

The Moon Ribbon. “The Moon Ribbon,” Joe said it as you thought it.

“Did he read it to you?” you knew your granddad wouldn’t pass up on the opportunity. He wasn’t one to shy away from storytelling, whether you were a stranger at the bus stop, his waiter in a restaurant or a famous actor in a busy bookstore - if you had willing ears, he’d gladly read you anything. 

Joe smiled and felt how your fingers squeezed his as you awaited his answer.

“Only the best bit.”

You felt your heart swell at the memory of your granddad always starting the story at the very beginning, wanting to read it to you fully, from start to finish, just to have you in the shop for longer.

At seven years old, you would always tell him to skip to the best bit, and you’d help him turn the pages. You only wanted to hear the part where the ribbon of Silva’s hair led her to the moon lady, who then taught her that the heart can only be given, not taken. Listening to your granddad read about this fearless young girl, who was led through adventures by the only thing her true mother had left to her, the hair ribbon, you had always imagined yourself as Silva. Facing cruel people, young Silva needed to find courage to defend herself, and your granddad had always said that sometimes people would try to take hearts, but books would never.

The way he’d talk about books as if they were magic had really reeled you into this passion and had led to you taking the bookstore off his hands when he eventually retired.

“You said he was wise,” you thought back to when you had stood under Joe up on a ladder when he had helped you restock shelves. 

“It seeped out of him, didn’t it, wisdom,” Joe confirmed.

“Just, his tone of voice, choice of words - the vocabulary on him really impressed me,” Joe chuckled to himself. 

“It’s what 87 years of reading books will do to you,” Another spasmed inhale hurt sharply inside your chest. You took care to expand your ribcage wider and lengthened your exhale to calm yourself. 

“I told him I come in here often, just to sit and to read and that you always let me.” Joe’s grin grew, his thumb back at softly rubbing yours. 

“He said that you knew better than to disturb a reading man.” Joe got a wet smile out of you, and he cheered internally. 

“It was the one rule in here,” you explained. “If he was reading something, I was not to be loud, or rowdy. I couldn’t be a bother and wasn’t allowed to disrupt him. Or anyone reading for that matter. So when, as a moody teenager, I wanted to be left alone by him or my parents, I’d pick up a book and they would just let me read. It’s the best trick he’s ever played on me, I think.” 

And then you felt it wash over you again, overtaking you completely, all of it too much at once, the ache of him not being there anymore, and yet everything that had ever happened in your life reminding you of him- it didn’t seem fair to you.

Fresh tears fell from your eyes, and loud sobs escaped your throat.

“Sweetheart,” Joe exclaimed on an exhale and was quick to get up from his chair.

He pulled you forward slightly by your arm, creating enough room to squeeze into your armchair beside you.

Joe had to hold you, had to let you find comfort by giving you his chest to cry into, to hide into.

With both his arms around you, you didn’t hold back and cried all of your sad out until you felt there was nothing left of you. 

Your shop remained closed for two more days, until Anne had offered to come in and help you on Tuesday. She didn’t have many classes that day and could be there just past noon.

Tuesdays were notoriously slow, so it felt like something you could handle. You had taken time to mourn and had found yourself somewhat ready to just have normal days again. 

Anne hadn’t gotten the chance to meet your grandfather, but the voicemail you had left her on Friday night had really filtered through the state of you. You hadn’t been able to finish a single sentence you’d started and had given up halfway through and opted to text her after.

“Just left a voicemail, delete it. Store will be closed tomorrow, probably Sunday too. Paycheck not affected.” And Anne had replied, “Lmk when im needed”.

The way Joe had been there for you on that Saturday was a moment frozen in time that you had cut up into smaller pieces and then had slotted in between your ribs. You could feel them there when you’d take big, deep breaths, and it was grounding.

It had helped you through the Sunday, and then also through the Monday after, and it had made you realize that you’d been wrong. Joe wasn’t meant to be read like a poem. Joe was meant to be felt like one. 

You spent two full days wondering if it was okay to send Joe a message, just to say thanks.

Logically, you knew that it would totally be okay. Your worry lied in that it was completely uncertain what you were to each other now. You had very clearly stepped into new territory, you felt.

The main problem of sending a text was that you didn’t know how to say, “hey thanks for Saturday, you made life a lot easier for me that afternoon” whilst also conveying “thanks for not kissing me then, but I do very much need you to kiss me the next time we see each other, k?”.

You decided you were going to text Joe a photo of the sign on the door reading open that morning. Omitting words completely seemed the smartest thing to do.

You spent the next however many minutes watching your phone like a hawk, procrastinating on tasks you had wanted to get done before Anne would get later that day. Fortunately it hadn’t taken long for your phone screen to light up at his reply. 

“🥐 ?”

And then, about 40 minutes later, Joe had walked in with a small paper bag of croissants and his laptop under his arm. 

“I’ve got something to show you.”

The photographs were stunning.

Joe had said beforehand that you shouldn’t look at him in them, but to look at how beautiful your store looked in them. A stupid ask. You were taking it all in.

Hunched over his laptop, both of you behind the counter, elbows leaning on its surface, Joe opened one image after the other.

“Pretty,” you said softly before you took another bite from the pastry in your hands.

“Isn’t this?” Joe held his hand over the laptop screen to hide his portrait behind it, letting the two of you focus merely on one of the corners of your store in the background of the shot.

It wasn't what you meant, so you moved Joe’s hand away to reveal the full photo again.

“Pretty.” You said again, louder this time, and Joe huffed a laugh through his nostrils, shy to take the compliment as you smiled at him. 

“I’ll show you pretty,” Joe said, moving his laptop a little towards him so he’d have better access and after a few clicks, he opened an image of you. 

Your eyes widened at it. 

When was that taken? 

“When we had a smoke break, he snuck some photos from outside,” Joe answered the question you hadn’t asked.

In the image you were stood by a shelf, arms busy, books in hand. You remembered you had seen the books that they had used as props hadn’t been placed back in their right spots, so you’d quickly busied yourself fixing it. What had shocked you most was how the photograph looked so very familiar to you.

Where had you seen it before? 

"Wait,"

You took your phone out and opened its gallery. Joe watched your brow furrow as you scrolled through, trying to find something.

You scrolled a long ways up, then back down a bit and then looked closely, eyes searching. 

There.

You tapped it and turned your phone to Joe. 

“Whoa,” 

Joe took your phone and held it up next to the screen of his laptop. Brightly displayed on your phone was a black and white image you had taken of your grandfather in almost the exact same position, at the exact same spot - even almost in the exact same frame. Joe used his fingers to zoom in a little, matching the frame more to the image of you. 

Uncanny.

He looked at you, worried that maybe he triggered something within you, but you were staring at the two images in awe. 

God, you were beautiful, Joe thought.

“He would’ve loved to have seen these. Can you send those to me?” you asked, not taking your eyes off them, almost mesmerized.

When Joe didn’t answer, you looked at him to find him looking at you, longingly staring, mouth slightly agape. 

Oh. 

You involuntarily swallowed thickly when you looked at his lips for a second too long. Joe brought up a hand and stroked a strand of hair from your face, caressing your forehead lightly and then down, leaving it there to linger on your cheek. His touch felt like fire on your skin.

When you reached up to fold your own hand over his to keep it there, Joe moved in closer. 

“If you don’t stop me, I’m going to have to kiss you,” Joe spoke in a near whisper, his eyes locked at your lips, and it tugged the corners of your mouth up into a small smile.

You didn’t stop Joe, which was all the encouragement he needed to close the gap in between you and he pulled you into a sugary sweet kiss.

Joe kissed you slow, almost lazily, and both his hands had found your face to cup, fingers caressing around your jaw and ears.

He could taste the croissant on you still.

Your hands had found his sides before brushing around onto his back.

Months, you thought. You had wanted this for months.

You could feel Joe’s hot breath on your face when he broke from you, his nose nudging around yours before placing another open-mouthed kiss on you.

And then another.

And another.

You puddled into his hands, completely melted at his sweet touches, so careful and so cautious.

Lips grained, and tongues licked.

Swept up, you wanted to swim in Joe's kisses for hours. 

But then, the door swung open, and the bell above it rang loudly, breaking your kiss abruptly. 

Anne. 

“Hi Anne,” Joe chirped, his hands still on you, but his tone of voice loud and upbeat like you hadn’t just entangled yourselves up into each other for a hot minute. 

Anne had definitely seen you, you knew it, but it didn’t show in her face. Like nothing ever really did.

Anne’s eyes darted from Joe, to you, back to Joe, back to you.

You were frozen in your spot, all wide eyes and wet lips.

“Gross.” She then groaned before beelining for the breakroom.

You stifled a chuckle, and Joe nodded with a furrowed brown. “Yea, all right.” He spoke loudly to Anne. 

Joe hooked an arm around your neck and pushed you into him, tucking your head under his chin. You hugged him back, both arms around his waist. You knew he’d let you go in a second, because Anne was there, and you had work to do, and there were still croissants left to be eaten.

So you took extra care to take it in. And you realized then that you could really feel Joe. 

You could feel him like a poem.