Page 93 of Scars and Crowns

"Busy?" His voice drifts across the shop. I pick up another book. One I've already moved three separate times today.

"Very."

He doesn't argue. Doesn't tease. For a while I hear nothing except the quiet sounds of him wandering through the shop.

Books sliding free. Pages turning. A shelf being examined. For one hopeful moment I convince myself he'll browse for a little while and leave me to my entirely unnecessary organisational project.

Then . . . "You remember this one?" I make the mistake of looking up. He's standing near the history section holding a thin paperback with a faded blue cover. Even from across the room I recognise it instantly. The breath leaves me before I can stop it.

"You still have that?" The question slips out before I remember I'm supposed to be avoiding conversations. He glances down at the book, running his thumb lightly over the worn spine.

"You gave it to me." A small smile appears. "You were convinced I desperately needed it."

Heat immediately climbs into my cheeks. "I wasn't . . . "

"You told me it might make me wise." He looks back at me. "Apparently you thought I was hopeless."

Despite everything, I laugh. "You were a seventeen-year-old boy."

"I was."

"So yes."

"You were occasionally hopeless."

"Occasionally?"

"Frequently." His laugh is quiet. Warm. "I remember."

So do I.

God . . . I remember everything. I'd spent weeks saving pocket money for that book. Not because I thought he lacked intelligence. I'd never thought that. I'd bought it because the hero reminded me painfully of him. A boy who believed duty mattered more than feelings. Who swallowed every emotion before anyone could see it. Who mistook silence for strength. By the final page he'd finally learned that love spoken aloud wasn't weakness.

It was courage. I hadn't known how to explain any of that to Yuvaan at seventeen. So I'd handed him the book instead.

"I loved that story," I murmur. Mostly to myself. He hears me anyway.

"I know."

I blink. "You actually read it?" The question escapes before I think better of it.

His eyebrows lift. "Of course I did." The answer is so immediate it almost makes me smile. "You gave it to me." He shrugs one shoulder. "I read everything you ever handed me."

A strange warmth spreads quietly through my chest. Every book. Every recommendation. Every scribbled note tucked between pages. He read them. All of them.

I lower my eyes before he notices how much that simple admission affects me. Too late. He notices everything.

"Why are you showing it to me now?"

For a moment he simply studies me. Then he walks over and places the book gently on the little reading table between us. "I think you should read it again."

I blink. "I've read it dozens of times."

"Not recently." He takes one slow step closer. Not enough to crowd me. Just enough that I'm suddenly very aware of how close we are standing.

"I think . . . " He smiles very slightly. " . . . you've forgotten how it ends."

I frown. "I haven't."