"I'm sure I will." She glances at me. Back at Stone. "You've got a good one here. Hire him permanently."
"Working on it," I say, even though technically he's already hired. Technically I had no choice.
The woman leaves. The door chimes again. Three descending notes this time.
Silence settles.
Stone peers at me. Uncertain again. "Did I do okay?"
"You sold books and convinced someone an octopus could beat a bear in a fight." I settle the pharmacy bag on the surface. Start unpacking prescriptions. "I'd say you did fine."
His whole face brightens. That lopsided smile again. The one that makes him look younger in a way I'm absolutely not ready to examine.
"She asked about the poetry section," he continues, like he's giving a mission report. "Said she loved Neruda but wanted recommendations. I suggested the cookbook because it had a recipe for octopus." He pauses, reconsidering. "That might have been where the octopus conversation started, actually."
I pause mid-reach for the blood pressure medication. Look at him. Really look.
He's still too big for the space. Still a walking disaster waiting for the next curb.
But he sold books.
And made a customer laugh.
And he's standing there like he's genuinely proud of the octopus conversation, which is possibly the most endearing thing I've witnessed in months.
"Stone," I say slowly, an idea forming. Half-formed. Reckless. "How do you feel about cooking demonstrations?"
He blinks. "What kind?"
"The kind that won't make people throw up. For the Heritage Festival. Cultural programming." I'm talking faster now. The pieces clicking together. "You said you made borscht at your last placement. What else can you make?"
"Lots of things." His brow furrows in concentration, like he's mentally cataloging his entire culinary repertoire. "Orc cuisine is mostly about preservation. Smoking. Pickling. Things that last through long winters." He ticks items off on his fingers. "Smoked root vegetables. Pickled mushrooms. Bone broth. Fermented cabbage that probably violates several health codes."
"Okay, maybe not the fermented cabbage."
"Probably for the best."
"But the other stuff." I relax and feel the first flutter of actual hope I've had all week. "Could you teach that? At the festival? Make it a whole cross-cultural cooking thing?"
He considers. Slow and serious. Like I've asked him something that actually matters.
"Yes," he finally says. "I could do that."
"Without property damage?"
"I'll be very careful around curbs."
I snort. Can't help it. The sound escapes before I can stop it.
His smile widens. Just a fraction. But I see it.
And something shifts. Nothing big. Nothing dramatic. Just a small recognition that maybe, possibly, this disaster of a morning might turn into something workable.
My phone goes off again. I ignore it.
Stone moves back toward the historical fiction stack. Back to shelving. Back to that careful, methodical process that shouldn't be as mesmerizing as it is.
I watch him for a moment longer than necessary.
