You’d been standing here for the better part of ten minutes, reaching for a book on the top shelf. A book you could almost, almost graze with your fingertips.

You jumped. Just barely. But enough that your hand dropped back down to your side.

You knew that voice. You’d know it anywhere—that slow, drawling amusement that carried the kind of confidence most people had to fake.

You turned.

He hadn't moved. Just stood there, watching you with that small, knowing smirk that meant he'd been standing there longer than he'd ever admit.