The door chimed again. I peeked past the shelves, heart hitching, only to be met with another stranger and not the man nor the teenage girl I'd imagined into existence.

All morning—and now well into the early afternoon—I'd been on edge. Every sound of the bell turned my stomach into knots. I just wanted them to walk through the door already so I could get it over with. Whatever this was. Whatever awkward, fumbling thing I was bound to do. Rip it off like a Band-Aid and endure the mortifying aftermath.

I adjusted the stack of books in my arms, shifting into another aisle. When I was younger, I used to dream of becoming a librarian. Libraries were always safe to me—quiet, sacred, orderly. I was the kind of girl who found god in the Dewey Decimal System.

Owning a bookstore, though? That part was unexpected. And yet, here I stood, surrounded by nooks of my own making—each shelf, each trinket, each crooked bookend arranged to my taste. A curated chaos of stories and spines.

My fingers slid along the books as I walked, trailing the faded edges and glossy dust jackets. The gentle click of my heels echoed against the wooden floorboards.

But creativity seeps in when you're surrounded by it long enough. They say there's a pipeline: readers eventually trickle into writers. I used to dream about that, too. A table by the front window. A velvet sign that read "Author Signing Today". My name printed in foil on a dust jacket. But I can admit where I'm lacking.

I'm not great with plot. Or arcs. Or structure. I'm just here for the smut. And the pining. And the moments that make you hold your breath for no reason. But even I know a romance without conflict isn't really a story—it's just a daydream with better lighting.

My gaze caught on a book with its spine turned inward. A mild offense in a place like this. I reached up, the tips of my fingers brushing the cover—

Almost there.

My shoe slipped, just slightly, and I felt gravity begin to win. I squeezed the books tighter to my chest and braced for impact—but the floor never came. Instead, I collided with something solid. Warm. Firm. The scent of jasmine, patchouli, and something clean—expensive cologne.

"That would've been a hard fall." A chuckle. Low.

My eyes flicked upward. Jackson.

I swallowed, suddenly conscious of every inch of him pressed against me. My fingers had found the front of his shirt. They lingered there a second too long, the grip turning into a silent trace as I mapping out the hidden muscle beneath the fabric before I let go.

"You okay?" he asked, brow furrowed.

This is real. He's real.

I stepped back quickly, palm flat against his chest like a push-off or maybe a pulse-check. "Y-Yes!" Too loud. Too fast.

His eyes widened slightly at the volume, and I felt the heat rush to my cheeks.

"Thank you," I said, softer now, watching as he reached up with zero effort and retrieved the book that nearly had me on my ass.  

"Actually," I said, fingers grazing the book as he handed it to me, "could you put it back? I just wanted to fix the spine. Make it face the right way. But clearly these shelves weren't designed with short people in mind."

"You should probably get a step stool," he replied, casual. Like we hadn't just reenacted a Hallmark movie scene with more chest contact. "Unless you want to hire me. I charge extra for catching services, though. This one was just a preview."

Was that a flirt? It felt like a flirt.

No. No, he's just being nice. Friendly. Probably some weird dad-joke version of flirting that I'm misreading.

"That's not very Prince Charming of you," I said with a small laugh. "Charging a damsel in distress."

"Ah, was that who I was supposed to be?" he teased. "For a second, I forgot and thought I was an entrepreneur."

He was not what I had written. In my stories, I made him darker. More brooding. Controlling. Dominant with a capital D. But here he was—charming, kind, and unreasonably attractive. Though, still definitely my type.

"Malaya, my daughter," he said, shifting the tone as his hand rested against the shelf beside me. "She's at the counter. Application's finished." He stepped aside, slow and deliberate, shoulder pointed towards me as his gaze lingered as if waiting for me to follow.

Maybe I shouldn't rule out controlling just yet.

She was beautiful. There was no denying the resemblance—she had his sun-kissed complexion, the same dark hair, a tall, willowy frame still soft with youth. But where his features were sharper, hers had been softened, kissed by a different kind of beauty. Her mother's beauty, I imagined. Whoever she was. I couldn't help wondering what she looked like.

"Ava, this is my daughter, Malaya." He stood beside her with a casual pride, his hand resting briefly atop her head. She thinned her lips at the gesture in a way only a teenager could—somewhere between subtle annoyance and quiet tolerance. "Malaya, this is Ava, the..." he continued, glancing to me, his voice catching on the next word.

"The owner of Bookwyrm's Hoard," I supplied, setting the stack of books on the counter and extending a hand toward her. "It's lovely to meet you, Malaya."

She wiped her palm on her plaid skirt—standard issue, that unmistakable Catholic school uniform I'd seen a hundred times. "Nice to meet you," she replied, voice soft as she offered a shy, feather-light handshake and then passed over the application.

"If you're ready for the interview, we can head to my office," I offered.

She glanced to her dad, unsure, and he mouthed, You'll be fine, with a tilt of his head and a quiet, reassuring smile.

And just like that, he became even more attractive. Curse this daddy-kink.

"This way," I gestured as I led her toward the back. "Alex, listen for the door, please?"

"On it," she called, tossing me a mock salute before turning back to the coffee bar.

I hadn't planned for this. Usually, I'd skim an application, think about it, build some thoughtful questions. And truthfully, the office barely looked lived-in, let alone a place for an interview. Alex was the only one I'd ever hired, and even then she mostly ran drinks and pastries. I wasn't even sure she liked books. So I was mainly on the floor, not stuck in here like some corporate boss.

"Let me just take a quick look over this," I murmured as I gestured for Malaya to take the seat opposite mine. I slid into my chair and glanced down at the application.

Freshman in high school. Orchestra. Swim team. Debate. This was a girl who knew how to fill a schedule. Or maybe someone else knew how to fill it for her. I wouldn't be surprised if Jackson had a spreadsheet somewhere detailing her entire trajectory to college.

I did take note that under "emergency contact," it was only his name. No mother listed.

But I couldn't ask. Is your mom in the picture? felt too invasive. Is your dad single? felt worse. And even if I wanted to—if he were available, if he was interested in someone like me—it wouldn't be right. She was a new hire. And he was her father. Even if he was the most tempting, magnetic man to ever walk through my bookstore and upend my entire sense of composure.

"You're hired," I said, setting the paper down with finality.

Her brows pulled together. "But... we didn't do an interview?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

I tapped the application. "We didn't need to. This tells me everything I need to know. You're a great student. Reliable and dedicated. That's enough for me. You can start whenever summer break starts."

Her eyes lit up, the glow of surprise spreading into a wide smile. "Wait, really?" She leaned forward slightly, then glanced toward the door as if to double check this wasn't a trick.

"You can tell him the good news," I said with a laugh, waving her off.

She didn't hesitate. As she slipped out to share her excitement with her father, I leaned back in my chair, watching the empty space she left behind. Does this count as my good deed for the month? I just ushered a teenager into the working world. Fast-tracked her toward adulthood. Maybe even toward caffeine addiction.

I heard his voice before I saw him. His hand lifted in a languid wave, the other slung around Malaya's shoulders like a protective shawl. "Thanks, Ava."

"Y-Your..." The word stuttered out of my mouth, unfinished. The door chimed as it closed behind them. "Welcome... I suppose."

Alex leaned against the counter behind me, forearms pressed into the wood like she was settling in to gossip. "How many things do you think that kid gets handed just because of her dad?" she mused. "Pretty and rich privilege. The deluxe edition."

I sighed, my fingers absently fidgeting with the hem of my blouse. "It's probably something she worries about more than anyone else realizes. I know I would. I mean, if that was my dad, I'd constantly wonder whether I earned something or if he just charmed it into existence for me."

Alex hummed in agreement.

"But for what it's worth," I added, "he didn't play a role in her hiring. She's overqualified. If anything, she's probably going to be bored out of her mind alphabetizing genre tags and organizing romance subcategories." A soft laugh escaped my lips.

And then—vibration.

Then again.

Then a third.

My brows furrowed as I pulled my phone from my pocket.

"Emergency?" Alex perked up, already reaching for the knot of her apron like this might be her golden ticket out. "Do we get to close early?"

"Nope," I said, clicking the screen. "Just my blog. I posted last night—looks like the comments are blowing up." I laughed as I started walking away. "No early night for you, Miss Coffee Witch."

Only Alex knew about my blog. Bookwyrm's Smut Trove was anonymous—no real name, no links to my social media, no breadcrumbs to follow. I'd made sure of it. It was just Bookwyrm and her smutty short stories, whispered into the void for fellow romance gremlins to devour. And I liked it that way. Safe. Quiet. Private.

I perched on the familiar stool behind the register, the wood worn smooth under my legs, just as my phone buzzed again. And again.

Okay, it wasn't that good of a story. If anything, it was a throwaway low effort story. Just a little spicy trainer-fucks-client gym romance.

My screen lit up with a flood of notifications: That's hot. Oh my god, I want him. That's the kind of trainer who'd actually get me into a gym. And then—She used a name.

I blinked. Wait. Did I? I scrolled back through the post. And there it was. "Ava". Not "Y/N". Not some throwaway placeholder. My name.

My mind turned to slush.

Is this you? someone commented, attaching a screenshot—my public account. The one I use for the store.

My heart dropped.

It has to be her. The username is too similar to the shop's. Same state. Same name as the FMC.

Oh god. I'm such an idiot. The blog's name was too close to my store's name. I'd even once commented about living in Minnesota. Mentioned I owned a bookstore. It had all felt harmless. Invisible. No one was supposed to care enough to connect the dots.

Maybe I could deny it. Brush it off as coincidence. I mean, "Ava" isn't exactly rare. And there's nothing on my socials that screams smut enthusiast or secret writer. I have never even hinted at it. There was just books and coffee and the occasional cat video repost. Still, I opened my profile and slammed it to private. 

My finger hovered over the screen, breath caught in my throat, when I saw it. A notification. Fifteen minutes ago. I'd been tagged. Someone had linked my blog and tagged my bookstore's account directly.

It was just fifteen. That's not a lot of time, right? Maybe no one saw. Maybe the algorithm was merciful today.

Untagged. Account privated. Nuclear protocol activated.

I exhaled, slow and shaky, and locked my phone.

It buzzed again.

No. No. I couldn't take another vibrating slab of doom in my pocket. My nerves were already hanging on by a thread.

"Jackson Reyes has sent you a message."

The little red "1" sat on the screen like a bloodstain. I stared at it long enough for it to become personal. My soul left my body. Visited the afterlife. Came back.

I tapped it.

J: Jackson huh? Nice name choice.

A link followed.

... To the personal trainer story.

I swear to God. I just died. I'm dead. I am deceased. Delete me from existence. Unplug the universe. Burn it all down.