Soap

The bookstore is warm—soft acoustic guitar drifting from old speakers, the air thick with the smell of cinnamon tea and paper. You’re tucked in the romance aisle, fingertips drifting across pastel spines and gilded titles, adding mental notes to your already overstuffed book pile.

You’re not alone, of course. Soap’s here.

He doesn’t exactly blend in. Leather jacket, easy grin, restless energy radiating off him like static. He’s leaning against the shelf, pretending to be casual, but his eyes keep tracking you like you’re the only story in the whole room worth reading.

You pluck a dark romance off the shelf—black and scarlet cover, the blurb promising betrayal, obsession, enemies-to-lovers chaos. Your kind of guilty pleasure.

Turning it toward him, you tease, “Bet you think this is ridiculous.”

Soap tilts his head, blue eyes twinkling as he squints at the cover. “Och, aye. That lad looks like he spends more time practicin’ his smoulder in the mirror than actually wooing anyone.”

You grin. “That’s exactly why I’m reading it.”

“Figures,” he says, laughing under his breath. “You’re pure trouble, you are.”

“You followed me here.”

“Aye, well. Someone’s gotta keep you from fallin’ for fictional villains.”

You roll your eyes, flipping the book open as he drifts away down the aisle. His absence leaves the air lighter, but not for long.

When he comes back, there’s something in his hands.

He offers you a book—different cover, darker, quieter. The kind of story you’d normally hesitate over, because it feels too close to your heart. Survival. Walls built high. A love that chips at them anyway.

You blink, then look at him. “You picked this?”

He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly less smug than usual. “Saw you lookin’ at it earlier. Thought it suited you better than Mr. Dramatic Red Foil there.”

Your fingers tighten around the cover. “You read the back?”

“A bit,” he admits. “Enough to know it’s the type you’ll dog-ear to death and pretend you didn’t cry over.” His smile softens. “Couldnae let you leave without it.”

Your chest flutters—dangerously warm. “So… you buying it for me?”

He winks. “Only if you promise to let me read it after. I wanna see what makes you fall for it.”

You smile, too fond. “So you do like romance.”

Soap laughs, eyes crinkling as he tries (and fails) to look smug instead of bashful. “Nah. I just like watchin’ you light up when you’re lost in a story.”

And just like that, the bookstore feels even warmer.