He's new.
The realization hits with uncomfortable clarity.
New to the city. New to human spaces. New to curbs and awnings and the unspoken rules about not throwing crates through storefronts.
I soften. Slightly.
"Just help me get these inside."
"I will."
We work in silence. Him scooping. Me stacking. The small crowd that gathered starts to disperse. Someone mutters about "those orcs." Someone else laughs.
I ignore them all. The murmurs, the laughter, the pointed looks—none of it matters right now. I have books to salvage, and that's exactly what I'm going to do.
The last book is wedged underneath the crate itself, pressed flat against the pavement. I crouch down, bracing myself, and tug at the corner that's poking out. It doesn't budge. The crate's got it pinned good, and no amount of wiggling is going to free it without potentially tearing the cover clean off.
Stone reaches past me. His arm extends over my shoulder, close enough that I can smell woodsmoke and leather, earthy on his coat. He grabs the crate by its edge and lifts it with one hand like it weighs absolutely nothing. Like it's made of paper instead of solid wood packed with who-knows-how-many pounds of hardbacks. He sets it aside on the sidewalk with barely a sound, careful now, deliberate.
The book underneath is fully visible now, and my heart does a complicated little stutter-step in my body.
It's battered. Cover creased down the middle from where the crate landed on it. Spine cracked in at least two places, maybe three. The gilt lettering is half rubbed away from age and use.
The Bloodied Crown.
My breath catches. Just stops, right there in my throat.
It's pulp. Cheap fantasy. The kind with a half-dressed warrior on the cover and a tagline that promises adventure, romance, and poor editorial oversight.
It's also my favorite.
I've read it six times. Own three copies. Can quote the first chapter from memory.
Stone picks it up. Turns it over. Studies the cover. The warrior. The dragon. The improbable armor.
"This any good?"
My brain short-circuits. Just completely flatlines for a second.
"What?"
"The book." He taps the cover with one thick finger, careful not to damage it further. "Is it good? Worth reading?"
I stare at him. At the book cradled in his massive hands. At the way he's holding it like it actually matters, like it's not just pulp trash he pulled out from under a wooden crate. Like he's genuinely asking.
"It's trash," I say finally. The words come out flat.
"The good kind?"
Something loosens in my soul. "The best kind."
He smiles then. It's lopsided, a little crooked, pulling more to one side than the other. It makes the scar on his jaw shift, the tissue there paler than the rest of his green skin. The expression transforms his whole face, makes him look younger, almost boyish despite the bulk of him.
"I like trash," he says, and he sounds completely sincere about it.
I don't mean to laugh. It escapes anyway, unbidden. Small and surprised, like someone just caught me off guard and I haven't quite decided how I feel about it yet.
He hands me the book, extending it with both hands like an offering. Our fingers brush in the exchange. His skin is warm against mine. Rough, callused, the texture of someone who works with his hands.
