He looked at the book the way I always wished people would look at books—with understanding. With respect. With recognition of exactly what they were holding.
Warmth rushed through me so fast I had to take a small step back.
“You’ll want to be careful,” I said. “The paper is?—”
But he handled the fragile binding as if he’d been doing this for years.
I blinked.
“—brittle,” I finished weakly.
He didn’t need the reminder. He was already easing the cover open with controlled patience. His attention sharpened, lashes lowering, focus fixed. He was… astonishing.
Something tightened low in my stomach.
I tried again, because instructions were usually my comfort zone. “You’ll want to support the spine when you turn the?—”
He was already doing that too. I let my hand fall to my side.
“Oh,” I murmured. “You’ve… done this before.”
He nodded, still absorbed in the book, the faintest look of contentment resting over his features.
A strange feeling washed over me. This wasn’t just about attraction. Not exactly. It was about trust. About watching someone handle something precious the way you would. About seeing proof, right in front of you, that care could exist without demand.
And for a moment, I saw him completely. This was a man who understood rarity and cherished history. He touched the world like it mattered.
My chest tightened again, but it wasn’t panic this time. It was something far worse—and better.
“There are notes,” he said quietly.
My attention snapped back to the page. “Marginalia?”
He nodded.
“Traditionally, the notes should not be treated as edits,” I said. “That’s someone reacting, not correcting.”
This was the part of my job I excelled at. The part doctoral committees had praised before I imploded under the weight of needing everything to be perfect.
His fingers paused at the corner of the page. “Interesting. Reacting how?”
I leaned in despite myself. “Sometimes it’s disagreement. Sometimes it’s someone underlining a sentence because it mattered to them. Sometimes it’s just ‘this is wrong’ written very politely.”
That got the faintest smile from him, and I watched as his interest piqued. “And you think that matters?”
“I think it tells you how the book was read,” I said. “Which is usually more honest than how it was written.”
He looked back down at the page.
I realized, abruptly, that I felt okay. The ache in my wrists faded to background noise. The memory of the van had loosened its grip for the moment. Why was this man grounding my nervous system? Had I unconsciously latched onto him because he saved me? I stopped that line of thinking immediately. I knew I was safe now. That’s all it was.
His concentration deepened, and I had the ridiculous urge to stay and watch his hands move. His mouth had pressed in a determined line, and a tiny crease of focus had appeared when he traced the faded ink.
I swallowed hard, pulse quickening.
No. Nope. I was not going to stand here studying him likehewas the rare book.
“I’ll, uhm…” I said, struggling to sound normal. “Give you a moment. You can take your time. Just—let me know if you need anything.”
