The bell above The Armory's door tinkles as I step inside, immediately hit by the warm scent of old paper and cinnamon. The bookstore is quiet,午后阳光过滤 through dusty windows onto teetering stacks of books. I spot him behind the counter immediately - Quentin, the owner, bent over a pile of inventory manifests. His hair falls into his face as he chews on the end of a pen, completely absorbed. When he looks up, our eyes meet, and he startles slightly before offering a shy smile.

"Can I help you find something?" he asks, pushing away from the counter. There's something endearing about his earnestness, the way he stands a little too straight, like he's trying to appear more confident than he feels.

I flash what I hope is a disarming smile, adjusting my cufflinks. "I'm looking for something very specific. An old book, possibly from an estate sale?"

Quentin's eyes light up with professional interest. "We just got in a collection from an estate. Mostly unsorted."

As he leads me toward the back, I feel the weight of the mission pressing down on me. Find the book, get out, don't involve anyone else. Simple. But as Quentin talks animatedly about the challenges of cataloging uncataloged books, gesturing with his hands, I find myself distracted by the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, the passion in his voice when he describes rare editions.

He stops suddenly, turning to face me with a curious expression. "What's the book about?"

I pause, caught off guard by the question - and by how close he's standing. I can smell his laundry detergent, see the flecks of color in his eyes. The air crackles with something I haven't felt in a long time.

"It's... complicated," I say, my voice lower than intended.

Quentin meets my gaze, and for a moment, neither of us speaks. The bell above the door jingles again, breaking the spell, but as he turns to acknowledge the new customer, I know something has shifted between us. This wasn't supposed to happen - I wasn't supposed to feel anything. But as I watch him interact with the customer, his easy manner belying his earlier nervousness, I realize with a sinking feeling that I'm already in too deep.

When he returns, he's holding a tattered manifest, his expression apologetic. "It might take me a while to find it in the unsorted boxes..."

I should walk away. Tell him not to bother. But instead, I find myself saying, "I'm in no hurry."

And in that moment, I know that everything is about to change - for both of us.