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The shelves teetered under the weight of thousands of tomes discussing every subject under the sun. Sunlight streaming in through the skylights formed skewed patterns against the faded spines, gold-embossed titles glinting in dim corners.  

On a rainy day like this one, few patrons perused the shopping district, much less a bookshop tucked in the forgotten alley of what used to be Baker’s Aisle. Even now, she could imagine the scent of honey-glazed cronuts wafting in whenever the bell above the door rang. 

“Where are you?” she muttered to herself. “Medicinal botany? Nah. Maybe late eighteenth-century epics? Too long. There has to be something.”  

Scanning the rows before her, she hummed along to Bach blaring from the tinny speakers. The owner had grinned upon her arrival and immediately switched from low jazz to acoustic piano per her exact taste, given that she bought more books in a month than the rest of the town combined. 

The bell chimed. 

I guess I’m not their only customer today. 

She snuck a peek through a gap in the postcolonial architecture shelf. 

“Oh, shit,” she murmured as her eyes widened. 

He was, perhaps, the most gorgeous person she had ever seen. Tousled dark hair, dressed in a brown coat that hugged broad shoulders, and the kind of smile she had only ever seen in the mirror above the bookshop’s front door. 

The owner greeted the man with a wave.

“Anything about postcolonial architecture?” he asked. 

She yelped and tripped on the heel of her boot. Smacking into the poster display behind her, there was a crash as she collapsed to the ground in a heap of limbs and non-fiction books. 

A hand grasped hers, helping her to her feet. “Are you okay?” 

Steeling herself for an onslaught of hot damn, she opened her eyes and nodded. All the saliva departed her mouth the longer she stared, but she forced herself to say, “Yep. Fine. Didn’t see where I was going.” 

They exchanged polite smiles before she awkwardly sidled past him toward the fantasy section. 

Her eyes caught on a chunky grey spine on the highest shelf. Here the Sands Whisper. She stood on her tiptoes, but her fingers just barely brushed its edge. 

Heat enveloped her back as he effortlessly grabbed the novel. 

“Here you go,” he said, a smile on his lips. 

Blushing, their fingers brushed as she took it from him. “Thank you.” 

He glanced at the cover. “A favourite of yours?” 

“Haven’t read it yet, actually,” she admitted, meeting his gaze. “I’ve heard good things though.” 

“If I may?” he asked, and he picked out an equally thick black volume. “This one is my favourite. Well, favourite of the moment, at least.” 

She felt herself grin. “That’s my favourite too, actually. For now, of course.”

 And later, once they were debating on which trope was superior to all others over a cup of coffee, she mused to herself that perhaps she was about to enter a romance novel of her own.