1. Hallie #2
I shove the books onto the bottom shelf with more force than necessary, not caring anymore about alphabetical order or the careful organization system I've spent months perfecting.
The spines aren't even aligned. It's practically library anarchy.
"Madison's wedding. The seating chart. It's nothing, really. Just wedding stuff."
"Nothing?" Caius echoes, his tone skeptical. He tilts his head, studying me with those dark eyes that always see too much. "Nothing that has you looking like you want to fake your own death and flee to another country under an assumed name?"
"I don't look like—" I pause, catching sight of my reflection in the glass door of the display case. My bun has come half undone, glasses sliding down my nose, and there's a wild look in my eyes that suggests I might actually be considering the fake death option. "Okay. Maybe a little."
Caius sits back on his heels, studying me. The amusement has faded from his face, replaced by something sharper. Concerned. "What happened?"
The problem with Caius is that he's known me since I was fourteen and he was seventeen, all gangly limbs and defensive sarcasm.
He'd shown up at our house one day with Ryan, both of them covered in bruises from some fight Caius never talked about.
My parents had taken one look at him and decided he was staying for dinner.
Dinner had turned into weekends. Weekends into summers. Eventually, Caius had his own drawer in the guest room and a standing invitation to every family dinner, holiday, and milestone.
Which means he knows my tells. The humming when I'm anxious. The way I reorganize things when I'm upset. The fact that I'm currently destroying my own display instead of fixing it.
"Kyle's going to be at the wedding," I say finally. "He's the Best Man. I'm the Maid of Honor. Madison thinks it's perfect."
Caius's jaw tightens. It's subtle, but I notice. I always notice things about him that I shouldn't.
"Kyle," he repeats, his voice flat. "The guy who dumped you while eating gelato in front of a monument?"
"It was the Trevi Fountain, and he wasn't eating gelato?—"
"Same difference." Caius stands abruptly, muscles coiling with barely contained irritation as he offers me a hand up.
His palm is warm and callused when I take it, rough from years of working on engines and changing tires.
The contact sends a little jolt through me that I immediately pretend didn't happen. "Guy's an asshole."
"He's not an asshole," I protest, even though defending Kyle feels like swallowing sand. "He's just... finding himself."
"In Europe," Caius says, his tone dripping with disdain.
"With a model. Who probably doesn't know the difference between a metaphor and a simile.
" He tilts his head, studying me with those dark eyes that see too much.
"Let me guess—he's documenting this whole journey of self-discovery on Instagram? "
I don't answer, which is answer enough. My silence hangs in the air between us like an admission of guilt.
He makes a sound that's half laugh, half growl, the combination rumbling in his ribs. "Of course he is. Of course that's what he's doing. Probably captioned every single one with something unbearably pretentious too, didn't he?"
I hesitate, then admit quietly, "'When in Rome.'"
"Jesus Christ." Caius runs a hand through his hair, fingers dragging through the dark strands and making them stick up in about five different directions.
He looks simultaneously exasperated and furious on my behalf, which shouldn't make me feel as warm as it does.
"You need a drink. Or possibly a lobotomy. Hell, maybe both at this point."
"I need to finish shelving these books and then go home and spiral in private like a normal person."
"Yeah, that sounds healthy," he says, his voice rough with something I can't quite name, concern maybe, or frustration, or that particular brand of protective irritation that Caius does better than anyone I know.
I glare at him over the cart of damaged books, narrowing my eyes in what I hope is a withering look.
But even as I do it, I know it lacks any real heat, any genuine anger.
The expression probably comes across as more petulant than threatening, like a disgruntled kitten rather than anything remotely intimidating.
Mostly because he's absolutely, infuriatingly right and we both know it.
There's no point in pretending otherwise, not with Caius.
He's known me too long, seen me through too much.
He can read me like one of the well-worn books on my cart, every dog-eared page and underlined passage a familiar story.
Ryan reappears from wherever he'd wandered off to, methodically wiping dust and grime off his hands with his t-shirt.
There's a smudge of dirt across his forehead that he doesn't seem to notice, and his sneakers leave faint dusty footprints on the library carpet.
"Got another load of donations in the truck," he announces, gesturing vaguely toward the back entrance with his thumb.
"You good here, Hal? Need me to stick around or can I bring the rest in? "
"She's great," Caius answers before I can even open my mouth, before I can formulate a single word of response. His tone is casual, easy. "I'll help her finish up with all this mess."
Ryan pauses mid-step, his hand frozen halfway to his pocket.
He looks between the two of us, his gaze bouncing from Caius's protective stance beside my book cart to my probably very flushed face.
Something unreadable crosses his features—recognition maybe, or understanding, or possibly just mild confusion about the weird tension crackling in the Biography section.
Whatever it is, he doesn't voice it. Then he shrugs, one shoulder lifting in an easy, unconcerned gesture.
"Cool. Works for me. I'll grab the last box from the truck and bring it to the front desk, then I'm out. "