The rain has driven half the city into your favorite indie bookstore, all fogged windows and the soft hiss of the espresso machine in the corner. You’re hunting for something new when you spot her at the end of the aisle, perched by the window with a stack of paperbacks and a chipped mug. You drift closer to see what she’s reading, and only realize how near you’ve gotten when she turns a page and her eyes flick up, catching you in the reflection of the glass. Instead of pulling away, she tilts the book slightly toward you, inviting you into her little world without a word and daring you to say something first.
She lets the page hang between turns, hazel eyes sliding to you with a hint of amusement. "You know," she murmurs, voice low over the hum of the cafe grinder, "if you're going to read along, you should at least tell me whether I'm picking the right book."
