The bookstore smells like dust and espresso. Every morning, you open the door with a soft jingle and breathe in the stillness—the kind that only lives in old places with worn wood floors and the whisper of pages turning somewhere in the back.

You took this job because you needed a break. Something small, something warm, something quiet. You did not sign up for Callum.

He's supposed to be in the city—editing manuscripts and working late hours in some glass-walled office. Instead, he's here, in a sun-flooded bookstore with rolled sleeves and ink-stained fingers. Your best friend's brother. The one you used to see in snapshots on her phone.

Now he's flesh and heat and cocky smiles, stacking boxes and leaving chaos in his wake.

He walks past you the first time and eyes the stack of romance novels you're organizing.

"Ah, the good stuff. The kind with chapter breaks you don't even notice."

You glance up. He's already smirking. Arms crossed. Biceps doing dangerous things under his shirt.

"Don't worry. I won't tell anyone you're into the kind of stories where the guy pins the girl against the wall and makes her forget her name."

You scowl and throw a bookmark at him. His annoying laugh fades into the background.

You met Isla, his sister—your best friend—at uni two years ago. She was all bright lipstick and sarcastic commentary. You bonded over books, coffee, and a mutual hatred of group projects. She told you about her family in passing: "My brother's an ass, but he knows how to cook. He reads all the time—like, old dusty Greek tragedy shit. Freak."

You didn't expect this.

He's back for the summer to help run the bookstore while their parents travel. Which means he's everywhere.

Behind the counter. In the aisles. Upstairs in the little office with the broken fan. Always with a mug in one hand and a book in the other, flipping through paragraphs like he's touching skin.

Every day, he flirts. Every day, you pretend not to notice how your skin buzzes when he looks at you.

"You always this quiet, or is it just when I'm around?"

---

The heat rolls in by mid-July. Thunderstorms in the afternoon. Heavy air, thick enough to taste.

You're locking up when the sky cracks open and the power flickers. Lightning. Thunder. Rain slamming the windows like it's trying to get in. The storm is too much, so you and Callum decide to wait it out inside.

You step in, and the front door slams shut behind you both. You turn the key to lock it, but it won't come out. He tries it too, but it still won't budge.

"Great. Storm must've swollen the frame again. We're locked in."

You look at him.

"What? Don't look at me like that. This isn't some 'trapped in a cabin with the hot stranger' story."

He pauses and grins. You roll your eyes because you know exactly what he's going to say.

"Unless you want it to be."

You don't respond. Instead, you walk to the back room. The storage area. A single dangling bulb. Boxes of unshelved paperbacks. Dust motes and the sound of rain hitting the roof like drumming fingers.

He follows.

Your clothes are soaked. And his? His coat is thrown somewhere, his tie tugged loose, and his dress shirt clings to him in places your eyes shouldn't linger. He runs a hand through his hair and leans against a crate like he owns the whole world.

"You ever read one of those scenes where they get caught in a storm and can't help themselves?"

You sit down in a chair and swallow. You can feel your heartbeat in your mouth. He walks toward you. Slow. Deliberate. His voice drops.

"I have. They always start with looks. Like this."

He's in front of you now. Close enough that you can smell him—coffee, cedar, and trouble.

"Then they say something they can't take back. Like... you've been driving me insane since chapter one."

He leans in. One hand grips the armrest of the chair while the other finds your jaw. His thumb brushes your cheek.

"And then they do something reckless."

His lips crash against yours.

It's not gentle. It's months of tension snapping like the power outside. His mouth is warm, tasting like breathless laughter and lightning. His hand leaves your jaw to find your hip, gripping like he's been waiting to touch you forever.

"Fuck..."

His voice is ragged. Hungry.

He pulls you up from the chair and pushes you back into the shelves, his lips trailing kisses down your neck.

"You want this? Please... please tell me you want this."