My stomach twists.
Of course there are; nothing ever seems to be one simple thing.
I turn the books over, comparing ISBN numbers like I’m decoding a bomb. My fingers tighten on the covers.
The worst part is I can already feel my brain starting to do its thing.
If you pick the wrong one, you waste money. If you waste money, you’re careless. If you’re careless, you shouldn’t be here.
My throat tightens.
I take a breath. I can do this. I can ask someone. This is normal. But the idea of walking up to the counter, talking to a stranger, admitting I don’t know which book I’m supposed to buy?—
My shoulders rise.
I stand there too long, frozen in front of a shelf, pretending to be a normal student browsing when really I’m stuck.
A voice I recognize comes from my left, “Bookstore got you too?”
My body jolts.
I look up.
Grayson Bennett is standing two feet away with a folded piece of paper in his hand and a book tucked under his arm. Hoodie, sweats, and hair slightly messy like he ran his hand through it without thinking. He looks tired. The kind of tired that lives under your skin.
I blink like my brain can’t quite accept him existing in the same places I do.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, and it comes out sharper than I mean.
Grayson doesn’t flinch. He just lifts the paper slightly. “Picking up a rental.”
His gaze flicks to the books in my hands. “You look like you’re doing math.”
“I hate math,” I say automatically.
His mouth quirks. “Same.”
I glance down again, because eye contact feels like too much. “There are two versions.”
Grayson leans a fraction closer—still not invading, just enough to see. “What class?”
“Intro to Psych.”
“Yeah,” he says, like he’s thinking. Then, matter-of-factly, “Show me the syllabus line.”
I blink. “What?”
Grayson nods at my backpack. “It’ll say edition or ISBN. We match it. Done.”
It’s not a big thing. It’s not heroic.
But the way he says it—simple, like it’s obvious, like there’s a path through the fog—makes my chest loosen half an inch.
I swallow and unzip my bag with hands that aren’t shaking quite as much as they were thirty seconds ago. I pull out the syllabus, flip to the textbook section, and shove it in his direction before I can overthink the intimacy of sharing paper.
He scans it quickly. Then he taps one line with a blunt finger. “Second edition.”
I look back at the covers. My eyes bounce between them.
