“Am I wrong?”
“Yes.”
“Damn.” He doesn’t look sorry. “Alright. New guess.”
He walks a slow circle around me, hands still tucked in his pockets. “You’re a poet. Published under a pseudonym. You teach workshops in the back room of a cozy café where everyone sits on mismatched chairs and pretends not to cry during open mic night.”
I snort. “Are you just making these up on the spot?”
“Absolutely,” he says, unbothered. “But come on, you have a poet vibe. All this quiet mystery and unexpected sharpness. Your words probably ruin men.”
That makes my cheeks flame. “They really don’t.”
He hums like he disagrees, then tilts his head again. “Okay. Final answer. You’re a secret bookshop owner. The kind with creaky floorboards and a bell above the door, and a grumpy cat that only likes you. You spend your days recommending rare hardcovers to anxious teenagers and arguing about plot holes with retirees.”
My mouth parts.
Because—okay,that onehits.
Harder than I want to admit.
“That’s... weirdly flattering.”
He lifts one shoulder. “Told you. I’m good at cataloguing people.”
“But not good enough to guess right.”
“Oh, I know I’m wrong,” he says, grinning. “But Ibet I’m close.”
“Not close at all,” I lie, suddenly feeling like I’m the one who’s been caught reading naked.
He steps closer. Not quite touching me, but warm and magnetic andthere.
“Let me try again,” he says, voice lower now. “You’re someone who’s smart. Patient. A little sarcastic. A lot curious. You like quiet, but not emptiness. You like stories with soul. And you spend your days doing something that lets you feel a little bit useful, even if most people don’t notice.”
I don’t answer.
Because the words land somewhere soft and tender in me, right where I live and breathe and shelve paperbacks.
He watches me carefully, the smirk softened to something almost... reverent.
“Not bad, huh?” he says.
I clear my throat. “You’re still wrong.”
He leans in, his breath brushing my cheek. “Then maybe you should give me a hint.”
I stare at him, heart loud in my ears, the scent of him flooding my lungs.
“Maybe,” I whisper, “I’ll make you work for it.”
He grins like a man who just won the jackpot. “Challenge accepted.”
Somewhere, violins change tempo. A sultry slide into a waltz.
He hears it too. Tips his head toward the dance floor.
“Dance with me.” Not a question. A statement polished smooth by confidence—and yet… somehow tentative, too, as though I might wield more power than I realize.
