Chapter Text
Shi Wudu’s bookstore is quiet on purpose.
Not “cozy quiet,” the way tourists wanted it to be: candles, macramé and curated playlists.
This is functional quiet: soft floors, chairs that don’t squeak, shelves arranged so people slow down without noticing they’ve been guided. The kind of quiet you build when you can’t afford chaos. Or replacements. Or anyone spilling oat milk on something printed before most of the town’s grandparents were born. It would be easier if the shop were tucked away on some sleepy back street. It isn’t. That would have been bad for business. The shop sits three streets from the water, close enough that the air tastes faintly of salt if you leave the door open too long. Close enough that summer brings tourists in waves. Sunburned, chatty, and dripping coffee everywhere.
Behind the counter, taped to the inside panel where only he can see it, is proof that his life will never be completely dignified. A small print. A parody of that old propaganda poster from 1984 ‘BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU’. Except “Big Brother” is very obviously him: his high ponytail and blue eyes, a cold gaze rendered in dramatic shading like he’s about to arrest someone for breathing incorrectly.
Shi Qingxuan made it in high school for some craft project. Handed it over like a gift and a threat at the same time. Shi Wudu had been angry. He’d also, irritatingly, found it fitting. He kept it. Now he sees it every day. A reminder that someone once looked at him, decided he was a tyrant, and loved him enough to immortalize it in glue and ink.
He opens at nine. He closes at seven. The rules are posted in three places, because people ironically become illiterate the second they cross a threshold of a bookstore.
At 09:17, disaster arrives anyway. The bell over the door jingles, far too cheerfully for this gray morning.
A man steps inside carrying a camera bag big enough to smuggle a small appliance. Rain clings to his jacket, to his lashes, to the ends of his hair like the weather was personally invested in him. The hair is dark brown, a little shorter than shoulder length, pulled into a half-up bun that should look neat but doesn’t, loose strands curl at his temples.
He shakes off water with an unapologetic confidence, considering he is surrounded by rare paper. Shi Wudu’s eye twitches.
The man looks up and smiles. It’s the kind of smile that assumes the world will cooperate if he’s charming enough. Shi Wudu does not cooperate as a matter of principle.
“Morning,” the man says, warm and easy. “You’re open, right?”
Shi Wudu looks at him. Then at the bright OPEN sign. Then back.
“Yes,” he says.
The man’s smile widens, like he’s delighted that Shi Wudu speaks at all. “Great.”
He takes one more step in, eyes sweeping over the space slowly, like he’s cataloging angles instead of books. Like this place is a subject and he’s already imagining how it’ll look framed.
“This place is… dangerously nice,” he says.
“Thank you,” Shi Wudu replies, because he was raised correctly, even if the rest of his personality doesn’t suggest it.
The man’s gaze drifts to the sign by the register:
NO FOOD OR DRINK BEYOND THIS POINT. YES, THIS INCLUDES COFFEE. NO, YOUR CUP IS NOT AN EXCEPTION.
He laughs softly. “That’s personal.”
“It became personal after the second latte spilled on a first edition,” Shi Wudu says.
The man winces with impressive sincerity. “That’s criminal.”
“Correct.”
“I respect you,” the man says, like this is a gift.
Shi Wudu doesn’t say what he’s thinking, which is: Bullshit.
Instead, he asks, “Can I help you find something?”
“Maybe.” The man shifts his camera bag on his shoulder, then pauses like he’s considering whether it’s worth putting down. He decides not to. Also a bad sign.
“I’m looking for local stuff. History. Folklore. Anything with… character.”
“A tourist,” Shi Wudu says, and makes it sound like a diagnosis.
The man looks offended in a playful way. “Temporary resident.”
“For what?” Shi Wudu asks, because if someone is going to treat his shop like a background, he wants to know how long the problem will last.
“Work.”
“Of course.”
The man’s smile turns brighter. “Photojournalism.”
Shi Wudu’s eyes narrow a fraction. “So yes, a tourist. Just with a deadline.”
“Hey,” the man protests. “I’m here to document the town respectfully.”
Shi Wudu looks at the camera bag. “That’s not reassuring.”
The man laughs. “Fair. I’m doing a series on coastal towns. The weather. The people. The small details everyone ignores.”
The way he says it, light and almost convincing, makes it harder to dismiss than Shi Wudu wants it to be. Like he actually means it. Like he has the attention span to notice things without turning them into a joke. Shi Wudu doesn’t like that.
“Name,” he says, because he prefers his problems labeled.
“Pei Ming,” the man answers easily, then tilts his head. “And you’re…?”
“Shi Wudu.”
Pei Ming repeats it like he’s tasting the name. “Shi Wudu.”
Shi Wudu’s patience drops. “Yes.”
“Nice to meet you.” Pei Ming’s grin turns unapologetic.
Shi Wudu gestures toward the back shelves. “Local history is in the rear. Folklore is second aisle left.”
Pei Ming starts walking, then pauses mid-step and looks back.
“Are you always this organized?” he asks, sounding genuinely curious.
“Yes” Shi Wudu says.
“And always this strict?” Pei Ming nods toward the sign with obvious delight.
“I’m not strict,” Shi Wudu replies. “I’m preventing tragedy.”
Pei Ming’s eyes brighten, and he winks. “I like strict.”
Shi Wudu’s stare turns flat. “Books.”
Pei Ming laughs, unbothered, and heads toward the shelves.
Shi Wudu goes back to his paperwork, because if he watches the man wander his aisles like he owns the air, he’s going to develop opinions he didn’t ask for. He writes one line. Checks one number. Tries to pretend the bell didn’t bring humidity and chaos into his morning.
It lasts exactly four minutes.
Pei Ming reappears at the counter with an armful of books stacked against his chest like he’s looting a museum.
“These are perfect,” Pei Ming says, setting them down with care that’s almost annoyingly respectful. “You’re scary competent.”
Shi Wudu glances at the titles, then at Pei Ming. “They’re filed by category. It’s not magic.”
Pei Ming’s mouth quirks. “It’s still a little magic.”
Shi Wudu makes a noncommittal sound, reaches for the scanner and starts ringing up the books. “You’re talking too much for someone who came in here for history.”
Pei Ming makes a sound that might be laughter. “I’m multitasking.”
“Mm,” Shi Wudu says, because of course he is.
Pei Ming leans on the counter a little, just a little and stops himself halfway, like he remembered where he is and who he’s dealing with. He straightens, obviously pleased with his own self-control.
Shi Wudu doesn’t comment. He refuses to reward behavior like a dog trainer.
Pei Ming watches Shi Wudu’s hands for a beat, then says, more carefully, “Do you get tourists often?”
“Too often,” Shi Wudu says.
“And do you always look like you’re deciding whether to tolerate them?”
Shi Wudu meets his eyes. “I am deciding. And the answer is no more often than not.”
Pei Ming’s grin turns wider, like that answer made him happier. “Good. I like knowing where I stand.”
He gathers the books into a neater stack. He looks like he might finally leave. Then he hesitates, shifting the weight of the camera bag.
“Okay,” he says, tone turning just a bit more professional. “Question. If I wanted to photograph the river when it’s foggy like this, where would you go?”
Shi Wudu knows the answer immediately. He also knows what happens when you give a man like this a location: he comes back with more questions, more charm, and more wet weather clinging to his hair.
He studies Pei Ming’s face. Open, curious, patient in a way that looks like confidence and might be something else.
Then, against his better judgment, Shi Wudu says, “The old pier. Ten minutes east.”
Pei Ming’s eyes light up like Shi Wudu just handed him a gift. “Perfect.”
He adjusts the books, then pauses again at the edge of saying something that would be annoying. He chooses wisely not to.
“Thanks,” he says instead. “I’ll owe you one.”
“I have no interest in collecting debts,” Shi Wudu replies.
Pei Ming smiles like he heard an invitation anyway. “I see… you should, though.”
Shi Wudu doesn’t respond. If he does, he’ll say something mean.
Pei Ming turns to leave, the bell jingling as the door opens. At the threshold, he glances back once, too sure of himself for someone who’s only been in the shop for ten minutes.
“See you around, Shi Wudu,” he says, as if it’s inevitable.
Shi Wudu watches him go.
Then he looks down at the counter, at the neat stacks of paperwork he maintains like a fortress. And behind the counter the ridiculous little poster of himself watching him like an accusation.
He tells himself he won’t see Pei Ming again.