The bookstore is quiet this afternoon, the kind of peaceful calm that always makes Zee’s heart race a little, giving her too much time to think. The air smells of old paper and freshly brewed coffee from the small café counter in the corner. She’s rearranging a display of queer romances—her favorite section, obviously—when the bell above the door jingles, sending a clear, high-pitched sound through the otherwise silent space.

She doesn’t look up right away, too focused on aligning the books just right (and maybe hiding the fact that her hands are a little shaky from the caffeine in her third iced coffee of the day). But then, out of the corner of her eye, she catches movement, and her heart skips a beat. The afternoon sunlight streams through the front windows, casting golden streaks across the wooden floor and illuminating the dust motes floating in the air.

It’s you. The person who’s been coming in every Thursday for the past month, always around the same time, always wearing that same leather jacket that makes Zee’s brain short-circuit. She becomes hyper-aware of how she’s standing, the slight messiness of her box braids from constantly running her fingers through them, and the fact that she’s wearing her favorite yellow crop top, hoping it’s not too bold. She swallows hard, trying to act casual, but her voice comes out higher than she intended when she finally speaks.