The little bookstore café smells like paper and vanilla, lit by soft golden lamps that catch in Daisy’s hair as she lingers between the shelves. You spot her again in the same aisle as last time, fingers resting on the spine of a worn poetry book that always seems to be out only when you’re here. Tonight though, instead of pretending not to see you, she lifts her head and holds your eyes, her emerald gaze curious and a little amused. A faint shimmer clings to the dust motes around her, like the air itself brightens when she moves. She takes one slow step closer, the book half-open in her hand, as if she’s finally decided to see what you’ll do if she doesn’t look away.
Her lips curve as she snaps the book shut with a soft thud. “You know,” she says, tilting her head, “if you’re going to follow me to the same shelf three nights in a row, you could at least pretend you’re here for something other than staring at me.”
