1
CARRIE
The wheels of my cart squeak every few feet, a sound that normally drives me nuts. Today, I don’t mind it. I’m humming as I push the half-loaded metal cart down the nonfiction aisle, the scent of old paper and lemon polish curling around me like comfort. The library is quiet, except for the muffled voices at the front desk and the faint rustle of someone flipping pages in the periodicals section.
This is my happy place.
Or…it was.
I’ve worked here since college. First as a part-timer during finals season, then as a full-time assistant, and eventually as one of two senior librarians in the whole damn town. It’s not glamorous. The air-conditioning fights a losing battle during the summers, and the budget meetings make me want to slam my head into a book return bin, but it’s mine. My little kingdom of card catalogs, reference requests, and overdue notices.
Today, though, everything feels brighter.
Because tonight, I’ve got a surprise party planned for Jinn.
I grin just thinking about it. He’s going to love it. His favorite whiskey, his MC buddies, and the cake I spent all night frostingmyself. He doesn’t know it yet, but I even made a playlist. Every dumb, cheesy song we’ve ever sung in the car is on there. I even threw in a few slow ones for later, when I plan to drag him onto the makeshift dance floor and press myself against him like I used to back in high school.
It still feels weird sometimes that he’s mine.
We’d been together just under a year—long enough for me to picture a future, not long enough to realize I was the only one holding the pieces together. A year of little routines, stolen weekends, whispered plans that felt real because I wanted them to be. Maybe that’s why the idea of losing him tightened something deep inside me.
That someone like Jinn Parker—the president of Satan’s Reapers, tattooed and gorgeous and always looking like he just stepped out of some grimy, violent music video—would wantme. Curvy, bookish, shy me. The librarian who triple-checks decimal points and alphabetizes her spice rack.
He says I’m sexy when I talk about historical preservation. He actually said that. And I believed him.
I’d never been someone men looked at twice. Not like that. Not with heat under it, or that fierce, steady focus Jinn had when he wanted something. He made me feel chosen in a way I didn’t know I craved—seen past the careful smiles, past the soft body I learned to hide behind. With him, I let myself believe I could be desired, even wanted.
He’s my first real boyfriend. My first everything, really. The first man who looked at me and saw more than just the safe option. When he told me I was beautiful—before he even touched me—I cried like an idiot in the back of his truck.
God, I hope tonight goes well.
It scared me sometimes, how tightly I held things I cared about. How losing someone—or even the idea of losing them—could make my judgment tilt sideways. I wasn’t reckless by nature, but when my heart cracked, it cracked fast. And deep.
Maybe that was love.
Or maybe it was the part of me that had never learned how to let go without breaking.
I slide a new copy ofUnderstanding the Civil Warinto its slot and smile to myself, already picturing the look on Jinn’s face when he walks into the clubhouse tonight. He thinks I’m just meeting him for drinks after my shift. He has no idea everyone will be waiting. No clue I’ve been planning this for weeks.
My fingers trail along the spines of the books as I move to the next shelf. For a moment, I let myself imagine him showing up early, arms wrapping around me, whispering something dirty against my ear just to make me blush while I’m still on the clock.
“Miss Saxe?”
I jerk upright, startled. Mrs. Luntz, the director, stands near the end of the aisle. Her expression is unreadable, hands clasped in front of her cardigan like she’s about to scold a child.
“Can I see you in my office, please?”
The smile fades from my face.
Something in her tone tells me this isn’t about book orders.
I follow Mrs. Luntz down the narrow hallway, my sneakers silent on the faded carpet. The air in her office smells like burnt coffee and lavender hand lotion. She gestures to the chair across from her desk, then sits with a sigh, not quite meeting my eyes.
The blinds are drawn halfway, casting slatted shadows across the cluttered bookshelves and dusty fern wilting in the corner. I fold my hands in my lap, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
“Is something wrong?”
She sighs. “Carrie…you’ve been here a long time.”
