9. Evie

9

EVIE

T he bookstore is still bathed in the soft blue light of early morning when I wake up, and for a moment, I’m disoriented, caught between the fading dream of last night and reality slowly coming into focus. I can feel the familiar, comforting weight of the bookstore around me—the scent of old paper, the quiet hum of the city outside—but there’s something different, something warmer, more immediate.

It’s Sasha. She’s curled up beside me, still tangled in the blanket we pulled off the chair last night, her hair spilling over her face in messy waves. Her breathing is soft and even, the rise and fall of her chest a quiet rhythm that matches the peaceful calm I feel settling in my own chest. I watch her for a moment, feeling the warmth of her body against mine, and it hits me all over again: She’s here, we’re here, and everything that happened last night wasn’t just some vivid, fleeting dream.

My mind drifts back to last night—kisses that grew hungrier, touches that lingered longer, and the way we’d finally given in, losing ourselves in the messy, beautiful chaos of each other. The bookstore is still a little wrecked from it: books scattered across the floor, a couple of chairs tipped sideways, and the faintest hint of our laughter still echoed in the corners. It’s never felt more like my space, yet also, for the first time, like something shared.

I take a slow breath, feeling the cool air against my skin where the blanket doesn’t quite reach, and I let myself relax into the moment. Sasha stirs beside me, her eyes fluttering open, and when she looks up at me, there’s this soft, sleepy smile that tugs at my heart.

“Morning,” she murmurs, her voice husky and warm, still heavy with sleep.

“Morning,” I whisper back, my fingers reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from her face. The gesture feels natural, easy, and Sasha leans into it, her bright green eyes closing briefly as if savoring the touch.

There’s a comfortable silence that stretches between us, filled with the quiet sounds of the world waking up outside. I’ve never been good at mornings—too many thoughts crashing in at once, too many things to do—but right now, all I want is to stay here, wrapped up in this rare feeling of peace.

But the day is already creeping in, and as much as I want to linger in this bubble, there’s a bookstore to run. I sit up slowly, stretch my arms above my head, and glance around at the scattered books, the disarray that marks our path from last night. It’s a mess, but it’s our mess, and that thought brings a small, unexpected smile to my lips.

“We really did a number on the place, huh?” Sasha says, her voice laced with amusement as she follows my gaze, taking in the aftermath of our evening.

I chuckle, nodding as I stand, offering her my hand to pull her up beside me. “Yeah, I don’t think I’ve ever seen it like this. But hey, it’s kind of a look, don’t you think?”

Sasha laughs softly, and the sound is like music easing the last of the tension from my shoulders. We start to move around the bookstore, picking up books and righting chairs, slipping easily into a rhythm that feels like we’ve done this a hundred times before. It’s not awkward; it’s strangely comfortable, like we’ve found a new way of fitting into each other’s lives, even in the quiet routines of the morning.

She reaches for a stack of books near the counter, pausing to read a few of the titles before carefully placing them back on the shelf. I watch her, captivated by the simple way she moves, her focus so genuine, like she’s savoring every small detail. There’s something incredibly intimate about seeing her like this—in my space, handling my books, bringing her presence into the nooks and crannies of my life.

As we work, we fall into easy conversation, punctuated by soft laughter and the occasional teasing remark. She makes fun of my alphabetized shelves, and I roll my eyes, defending my organizational system with mock seriousness. There’s a lightness to it all, a playful back-and-forth that feels like we’ve known each other much longer than we have. It’s a new kind of intimacy, not just in touch, but in the way we talk, the way we share the space, the way her presence blends seamlessly into my morning routine.

I catch her watching me a few times, her gaze lingering in a way that makes my skin warm. There’s a quiet intensity, like she’s memorizing every detail, and it makes my heart stutter. I realize I’m doing the same—watching her move, listening to the cadence of her voice, holding onto every little moment because it feels too good to let slip away.

Eventually, the bookstore is back in order, but it doesn’t feel the same. It feels new, like it’s been touched by something I didn’t know I needed. I turn back to Sasha, wiping my hands on my jeans and smiling softly as she looks at me, and for a second, everything else falls away. The morning light filters through the windows, casting soft shadows across the shelves, and there’s a feeling in the air that I can’t quite name but don’t want to lose.

She steps closer, reaching out to brush her fingers against mine, and it’s such a small, simple touch, but it makes my chest tighten. “I like this,” she says quietly, her voice gentle. “Being here with you. It feels…right.”

I squeeze her hand, feeling a swell of warmth that starts in my chest and spreads through my whole body. “Yeah,” I whisper, my smile widening. “It really does.”

“But”—her voice is filled with an unexpected seriousness, and I feel my heart stop a second, a crash of reality feeling imminent—“it is seriously lacking in coffee.”

And she kisses me before I can let out the breath I am holding.

The morning stretches longer than I expect, but I don’t mind. Every second with Sasha feels like it’s bending time, making it feel richer, fuller, like it’s worth more. But now, reality is starting to seep back in. The sun is rising higher, casting soft, golden light through the windows, and the city outside is coming to life. Sasha glances at her phone, her expression softening with a hint of reluctance. It’s a look I know all too well; the one that says, “I’d stay if I could.” She has things to do, a life beyond this morning, and I feel the inevitable pull of time tugging at the edges of our little cocoon.

She catches my eye, and I see the same bittersweet mix of contentment and hesitation reflecting back at me. We’ve spent hours together—talking, laughing, getting lost in each other—and yet it feels like not nearly enough. She’s still holding a book she picked up earlier, her fingers tracing the spine absentmindedly as she smiles at me, and the sight of it makes my chest tighten with a strange, unexpected ache.

“I should probably get going,” Sasha says softly, her voice tinged with the faintest trace of regret. “I’ve got a shift at the wing bar later, and I should probably try to look somewhat presentable.”

I nod, trying to muster a smile that doesn’t feel like goodbye. “Of course. And I’ve got…well, the bookstore, obviously.” I gesture vaguely toward the shelves and the half-finished coffee cups on the counter, the quiet space that’s suddenly starting to feel a little too empty.

She moves closer, setting the book back on the shelf, and it takes all my willpower not to reach out and pull her back into me. Her presence feels so natural here, like she’s always been a part of this place, and the thought of her leaving now feels like waking up from a dream I’m not ready to let go of.

“Last night was…” Her voice trails off as she searches for the right words. She shakes her head, a small, almost shy smile breaking through. “Well, you know.”

I laugh softly, nodding as I lean against the counter, trying to keep my composure. “Yeah. I know.”

There’s a pause, a soft, lingering silence where neither of us seems to want to move. I watch her, taking in every little detail: the way her hair falls casually over her shoulder, the curve of her smile, the light in her eyes that still feels like it’s holding on to me. I don’t want this to be the last time I see that look, the last time I feel this warmth that’s been wrapping itself around my heart all morning.

But then Sasha reaches out, her fingers brushing mine in a touch so gentle it almost breaks me. “This isn’t the end of this, right?” she asks, her voice soft but certain, like she’s already decided the answer. “I mean, I’d like to see you again. Soon.”

There’s a flutter in my chest, a rush of something I haven’t felt in a long time: hope. I nod, squeezing her hand just a little tighter. “Yeah. I’d like that too.”

She smiles, and it’s like the sun coming up all over again. I watch as she turns toward the door, her steps slow and reluctant, like she’s feeling the same pull I am. I want to say something, to find the perfect words to capture everything that’s buzzing inside me, but they all feel too big for this quiet morning moment. So I let her go, my eyes following her as she steps out onto the sidewalk, the bell above the door chiming softly behind her.

The door closes, and suddenly, it’s just me and the bookstore. The quiet is different now, filled with the echo of her laughter, the memory of her touch, and the lingering warmth of the hours we spent wrapped up in each other. I run my fingers over the counter where she stood, tracing the spot where her hand had rested, and I can still feel the faint, comforting imprint of her presence.

I move through the bookstore, straightening a few books that are still slightly out of place, and I can’t help but smile. It’s a small thing, this rearranging of shelves, but it feels like putting something back together that’s been waiting to be whole. The space feels more alive than it ever has, like it’s holding onto the energy Sasha brought with her, and I want more of it—more of her, more of this feeling that’s still humming in my veins.

I take a deep breath, letting the air settle in my lungs, and as I turn back to the front of the store, I feel a flicker of excitement, the kind that only comes when something new is beginning. This morning wasn’t just a moment; it was a promise, one that whispers quietly between us, even now that she’s gone.

I don’t know what comes next, but for once, I’m not afraid of the unknown. I’m ready to see where this takes us, ready to open up to the possibility of something real. And as I flip the sign on the door to “Open,” I can’t help but smile.