Bright. Searching.
“I imagine it’s big, and fast, and loud,” I say honestly.
Something flickers across his face.
“And what’s yours?”
I gesture around us.
“Mine? Smaller by comparison. Much smaller. But it’s got some really great stories.”
Silence stretches.
Charged.
That tingle I’ve been trying to ignore? It sparks back to life.
I swallow.
“Anyway, what do I know? This is a bookstore,” I add quickly. “Not a career counseling center.”
A slow smile curves his mouth.
“I know.”
He steps closer to the counter.
Close enough that the air shifts again.
“Still,” he says quietly. “You’re the first person who didn’t just tell me to take the gig.”
My heart stutters.
“I didn’t tell you not to take it.”
“You didn’t tell me to.”
And that feels important.
For a second, I see it again—that same hesitation from the kitchen.
The same almost.
I take a breath.
“I think,” I say carefully, “that if something makes you feel like you’re being drained instead of filled up, maybe you’re allowed to question it.”
His gaze sharpens.
“Is that what you think I’m doing?”
I shrug, but my voice softens.
“I think you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.”
The bell over the door jingles again—mercifully, annoyingly—and an elderly couple wanders in.
David steps back.