I laugh, and he grins, proud of himself for making me laugh.
"Time's up," Robin calls. "Sorry, Dev, but the afternoon rush is about to start."
Devin looks at the clock, surprised. "Oh. Right."
He starts to slide out of the booth, then pauses. "This was... fun."
"Yeah, it was."
"Maybe we could... if you're here Monday..."
"I'll be here Monday."
"Cool." He stands, clutching his book. "I should — the afternoon rush —"
"Dev," I say, and he stops. "What time do you get to the library on Monday mornings?"
He blinks. "Usually around six-thirty. Why?"
"Just wondering. See you Monday."
He nods, still confused, and heads back to the counter. I watch him tie his apron back on, check the machines, fall back into his work rhythm. But he keeps glancing over at me, a small smile playing at his lips.
Monday morning. Six-thirty.
Maybe I'll just happen to be there too.
With my own book recommendation to slip him.
Chapter 5
Devin
Monday morning, 6:27 AM.
I punch in the code at the library's senior entrance, same as every morning. Margaret waves from behind the desk, same as every morning. I head to my spot in the reference section, same as every —
There's a book on my chair.
Not just any book.The Name of the Windby Patrick Rothfuss, with a note sticking out of it.
My heart stops.
I recognize the handwriting from the coffee receipt Silas signed on Friday. Neat, slightly slanted left, the kind of handwriting that comes from someone who thinks before they write.
Since you gave me dragons, I thought I'd give you unreliable narrators and beautiful prose. But fair warning — the third book still isn't out. We're all suffering together. -S
I look up and there he is, in his usual corner in the fiction section, already reading. He glances up, catches me staring, and gives me a small wave.
He came here at 6:30 in the morning to leave me a book.
Nobody has ever given me a book before. I've borrowed thousands, checked out hundreds, held them carefully and returned them on time because they belonged to somewhere else. But this one, well, it's a library book too, technically. He didn't buy it. He checked it out and left it on my chair with anote, and that's not the same as giving, except it is because he thought of me when he wasn't here. He went to the shelf and pulled this book and wrote the note at home, probably, or maybe at the bar where he lives with the rest of the pride, and he carried it here in the dark at six-something in the morning and set it on my chair.
That's giving. That counts.
I hold up the note, mouth "thank you," and he smiles. That real smile, warm and unguarded.
Then we both go back to reading, but everything feels different. Charged. Like the air between our sections is humming with possibility.