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The bell over the door chimed like it always did—soft, apologetic, a little old-fashioned for a shop surrounded by cafés with minimalist signage and espresso machines that hissed like offended cats.
Kaz looked up automatically from the ledger he was pretending to balance.
She stood just inside the doorway, the early afternoon light catching in her dark hair, scarf looped loosely at her neck despite the mild weather. A canvas tote hung from her shoulder, already straining at the seams—books, probably library returns, possibly contraband snacks. She paused to wipe her shoes on the mat, as if she had all the time in the world.
“Inej,” Kaz said, before he could stop himself.
She smiled when she saw him, bright and unguarded, the kind of smile that made the rest of the shop feel like a set dressing. “Kaz.”
From behind the counter, Jordie made a loud, theatrical sound of suffering. “You greet her like she’s a regular customer.”
“She is a regular customer,” Kaz shot back.
“She’s here more often than our suppliers,” Jordie said. “I’m just saying. If we charged rent—”
“Hi, Jordie,” Inej interrupted pleasantly.
Jordie grinned. “My favorite sociology menace. What’s the damage today?”
She lifted the tote. “Returning these. And I need something new. Something distracting.”
Kaz’s fingers tightened around his pen. “Bad week?”
She grimaced. “Group project.”
Jordie winced in solidarity. “Say no more. Kaz will fix you.”
“I can pick my own books,” she said mildly, already drifting toward the fiction shelves.
“You could,” Jordie agreed. “But then you’d miss out on his tragic need to be useful.”
Kaz kicked his brother’s ankle.
This was how it always went.
The bookshop—Rietveld & Rietveld, gold lettering peeling slightly from the window—sat on a quiet street in Amsterdam, tucked between a bicycle repair shop and a café that smelled perpetually of burnt sugar and ambition. Their parents’ old place. Saved from being sold off only because Jordie had begged, and Kaz had done the math and realized they could make it work if they lived above the shop and didn’t sleep much.
Jordie handled people. Kaz handled everything else.
And then there was Inej.
She came in nearly every day—sometimes twice—claiming she liked the quiet, the way the shop smelled like paper and dust and something almost sweet. She said the bell was comforting. She said the chairs by the window were perfect for reading.
Kaz knew all this because she told him. Casually. Like it didn’t rearrange his internal organs every time she spoke directly to him.
She hated coffee with a passion that bordered on moral outrage, but still bought tea from the café next door and brought it in, balancing the cup carefully on stacks of books.
“Peppermint again?” Kaz asked, trailing after her.
“Chamomile,” she corrected. “Peppermint makes me anxious.”
“Tea that makes you anxious feels like a design flaw.”
She shot him a look. “You drink coffee like it’s a personality trait.”
“It is a personality trait.”
They fell into their usual rhythm—banter over books, trading recommendations like secrets. She liked poetry that hurt a little. Political theory she claimed to hate but read anyway. Novels about migration, displacement, survival. He gave her crime fiction, gothic novels, histories written by people who clearly resented authority.
They argued about movies too.
“You cannot seriously think that film was good,” she said once, perched on a ladder, pulling down a book Kaz had placed deliberately out of reach.
“It was visually interesting.”
“It was three hours of men staring meaningfully into the middle distance.”
“That’s cinema.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”
And he thought, I would let you ruin me.
He did not say that out loud.
The day she came in with Thomas, the bell sounded different.
Kaz noticed immediately because his body reacted before his brain did—stiffening, a prickle at the base of his neck. Inej stepped in first, smiling as usual, but she wasn’t alone.
The boy beside her was tall, well-dressed in a way that suggested effort. Clean haircut. Confident posture. The kind of person who probably answered questions in class without being asked.
“Hey, Kaz,” she said, waving. “Jordie.”
“Afternoon,” Jordie said cheerfully. “Who’s your friend?”
“This is Thomas,” she said. “We have a class together.”
Thomas smiled, extending a hand. “Nice place.”
Kaz did not take the hand.
Jordie, traitor that he was, did. “Thanks. Family business. Browse all you like.”
They did. For hours.
Kaz pretended to reorganize a shelf that had been alphabetized correctly since 2014. He watched them from the corner of his eye—Thomas leaning in, Inej gesturing animatedly, the two of them laughing at something Kaz couldn’t hear.
Something twisted in his chest, sharp and mean.
At one point, Inej picked up a book Kaz had recommended weeks ago, turning it over thoughtfully.
“I thought you said you hated unreliable narrators,” Thomas said.
“I do,” she replied. “But Kaz convinced me this one’s worth it.”
Kaz’s name on her lips—easy, unthinking—should have been a victory.
Instead, it felt like a loss.
When they finally approached the counter, Kaz retreated as if burned. “Jordie,” he muttered. “You ring them up.”
Jordie raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Inej frowned. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” Kaz said too quickly. “Just—inventory.”
She hesitated, then nodded. Thomas paid. They left with the bell chiming behind them, Inej waving as she went.
The shop felt emptier after.
Jordie leaned on the counter, studying Kaz with infuriating calm. “So.”
“So,” Kaz echoed.
“You’re an idiot.”
Kaz bristled. “I don’t—”
“You do,” Jordie said, cutting him off. “You like her. Obviously.”
Kaz stared at the floor. “She’s a customer.”
“She’s a person,” Jordie corrected. “And she’s clearly fond of you. You light up every time she walks in, and then today you sulked like a Victorian orphan.”
Kaz clenched his jaw. “She brought someone.”
“She brought a classmate.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you,” Jordie said gently. “And I know you’ll wait until it’s too late, because that’s what you do. You think wanting something is dangerous.”
Kaz said nothing.
Jordie sighed. “If you don’t ask her out, someone else will. Someone like Thomas. And then you’ll be stuck recommending books to her and pretending it doesn’t hurt.”
The words landed. Stayed.
Kaz didn’t sleep much that night. Or the next. He replayed every conversation, every smile, every moment she’d lingered just a second longer than necessary. By Monday morning, he had made a decision.
A stupid one. But a decision.
The bell chimed.
Inej walked in, sunlight in her hair, scarf loose, tote heavy.
“Kaz,” she said. “You look tired.”
“Busy weekend,” he said. His voice didn’t crack. A small victory.
“So listen, remember that movie I was talking about?” she continued. “The gothic horror one? I just found out it's only in theatres for two weeks and I have classes all day and all the night showings are sold out. I'm so disappointed cause I have been looking forward to it all year. And suddenly, poof! All the seats, taken. All the tickets, gone.”
His heart slammed against his ribs.
“Funny you should mention that,” he said, reaching into the drawer beneath the counter. He pulled out two tickets, held them up like evidence. “I bought tickets.”
Her eyes flicked to them. Then to him. “You?”
“Jordie was supposed to come,” he lied smoothly. “He canceled.”
From the back of the shop, Jordie made a choking sound.
Inej crossed her arms, smiling slowly. “You bought two tickets to a movie you called ‘Oscar bait’… for a film I wanted to see… during its limited theatre run?”
Kaz felt heat creep up his neck. He shrugged. “Maybe I changed my mind.”
She stepped closer, peering at him. “You hate gothic horror.”
“I tolerate it.”
“You complained about the trailer.”
“The sound mixing was off.”
She laughed softly. “Kaz.”
“Yes?”
“You're usually better at lying.”
He held her gaze, pulse roaring in his ears. “Do you want to go see it with me?”
For a moment, she just looked at him. Then she reached out, plucked one ticket from his hand, and smiled.
“Of course,” she said. “I was hoping you’d ask.”
The bell chimed behind her as she went to browse, ticket tucked safely into her book.
Jordie whooped from the back.
Kaz leaned on the counter, breath unsteady, heart full, and thought—finally.