His little bookshop sat crooked on its foundation like it had grown tired of standing straight. The windows were foggy, and a paper notice was stuck over the glass:
“Closed until further notice.”
I rose onto my tiptoes, pressing my forehead lightly to the glass and trying to peer past the stacked books inside. The light filtering in through the skylight caught motes of dust mid-air. Everything else was still.
Something was off.
Did he really leave?
Then, soundlessly, I felt a presence behind me, heavy and thick, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand.
I spun around, breath catching mid-turn.
And in front of me,hewas standing tall. A dark coat cloaked his frame. Strands of dark hair fell loosely across his forehead, catching the light. And his face—damn it—his face, all harsh lines and cold beauty, looked like something they didn’t sculpt for men in recent centuries anymore.
One of his brows lifted lazily, his head tilting slightly, as if he was studying a peculiar creature that’d wandered into his world.
I swallowed. “Damn,” I pressed a hand to my chest, more for drama than necessity, and turned away from his eyes—those eyes that always left something fluttering and disoriented in my gut. “Don’t sneak up on people like that.”
“I’d be pleased,” he said, “if you told me you came for books. And not forhim.”
I scoffed, rolling my eyes. “How is that any of your business?”
I tried to move past him, but he shifted very fast. One arm came up and planted itself against the door beside me, blocking my exit and trapping me.
“Hey!”
I glared up sharply, but the moment our eyes locked, something punched through my chest, so hard I lost my breath.
A searing ache bloomed behind my ribs suddenly, pulling tight and tearing. I gasped, clutching my chest, strangled breath hitching like I couldn’t pull enough air in. Panic swirled fast and ugly.
My hand reached out towards him for balance, for help, for anything to anchor me. But before it could find his coat, he caught it in his own grip, gloved hand swallowing mine.
His eyes dropped to where I was clutching my chest, and something flickered there for a brief second. Then, without a word, he tugged me forward. Into him.
With one hand holding mine, his other arm came around me, banding strong across my back. His hand splayed wide, fingers pressing into my waist.
I froze. Entirely.
Not because of pain now.
But because of him. And what he just did.
From the way he held me—firm but not cruel. Protective but not gentle. From the contact. From the feel of him. From the terrifying, impossible realisation that he was hugging me...and I wasn’t running away from it.
The last time this happened, I’d been unconscious.
And now that I was fully awake, I still couldn’t move. Not even a little. Not even to pretend I didn’t like the way he felt so solid and hot and steady. My hands stayed where they were, useless beside me, my brain short-circuiting on repeat:
He’s hugging me. He’s hugging me.
The pain was already receding, melting away under the heat of his body pressed to mine. The heat—it was nearly unbearable. Radiating through my jacket, into my skin, into my bones.
He felt like he was on fire.
“You’re...you’re hot. You’re burning up.”
“I’m fine.”
