“Wait—what?” I frown. “You don’t even know me.”
He doesn’t answer that. Instead, he heads for the door.
“Hey,” I call after him. “You could at least tell me your name.”
He pauses, just for a second, his back to me.
“…Archer.”
Then he’s gone.
I stand there in the dusty, half-collapsing bookstore, staring at the doorway where he disappeared. Archer. Weird guy. But…
My gaze drifts back to the shelf he stopped from crushing me.
…fast. Really fast.
I don’t move for a long moment after he leaves.
The silence in the bookstore feels heavier now, like it’s settled into something aware. I can still see the place where he stood, still feel the sudden shift in the air when he’d been here—like a storm that rolled in and out without warning.
Archer.
The name fits him in a way I can’t quite explain. Sharp. Direct. Dangerous around the edges. I shake my head, forcing myself to focus.
“You’re not here for mysterious mechanics,” I mutter. “You’re here to fix a bookstore.”
Right.
I eye the shelf cautiously. It’s upright now, but it still leans slightly, like it could decide to betray me again at any moment. I give it a wide berth as I move toward the counter.
The box I brought in earlier sits where I left it. I crouch beside it, peeling back the tape and opening the flaps. Books stare back at me—my books. Some old favorites, some inventory I managed to acquire at a decent price.
Something about seeing them steadies me. This is real. This is happening.
I pick one up, running my thumb along the spine. The familiar weight grounds me in a way the rest of this building hasn’t yet. Whatever else is wrong with this place, I can fix it. I have to.
I stand and carry a small stack toward the least unstable-looking shelf. Each step feels deliberate, careful. I place the books down one by one, testing the shelf’s response with every addition. It creaks, but holds.
“Progress,” I say softly.
Even if it’s the tiniest kind.
I spend the next hour moving slowly, bringing in more boxes, opening them, stacking books in cautious, uneven rows. Dust clings to everything, coating my hands, settling into my hair. The air grows warmer as the afternoon stretches on, the sunlight shifting through the dirty windows.
Every now and then, I glance at the door. Not because I expect him to come back. Just… because. It’s ridiculous. I don’t know anything about him beyond his name and his apparently impressive reflexes. And his tendency to issue warnings like he’s delivering a verdict.
Still. There was something about the way he moved. Efficient. Controlled. Like he was always aware of everything around him. Like he’d known that shelf was going to fall before it actually did. I shake that thought off, annoyed with myself.
“You’re tired,” I mutter. “That’s all.”
By the time I step outside again, the sun has dipped lower in the sky, the light turning warmer, softer. My arms ache from carrying boxes, and there’s a thin layer of sweat clinging to the back of my neck.
I lean against the side of the truck for a second, catching my breath. The street is still quiet. A couple of cars pass inthe distance, slow and unhurried. Somewhere down the block, a door closes. The whole town feels like it’s moving at a different pace than I’m used to—slower, steadier.
Watching.
That thought creeps in uninvited.
