The bell above the door didn’t ring so much as choke when you pushed it open. It made this tired little jangle.
The air inside was warmer than outside. Thicker. It smelled faintly like plastic wrap, old carpet, and something aggressively artificial. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flattening everything into the same dull shade.
You stopped two steps in. To your right was a wall.
Not a subtle wall. A wall, filled with literal sex toys. You blinked once. Then twice. Then looked very deliberately at the ceiling instead.
“Okay,” you muttered under your breath.
You weren’t naïve. You just… hadn’t processed what “Adult World” meant in practical terms. You’d seen a flyer about used books in the window last week and thought it was quirky. Indie. Maybe ironic.
You forced yourself to move further inside, eyes fixed ahead like if you didn’t look directly at anything, nothing could look back at you.
The counter was empty.
There was a rolling office chair behind it, slightly turned, like someone had just gotten up mid-thought. A half-empty coffee cup sat near the register. A paperback was facedown beside it, spine cracked.
From the back hallway, you heard faint music, something older, and then a voice. Off-key. Low. Singing along like the person didn’t think anyone could hear them.
You stood there awkwardly for a few seconds. Then you cleared your throat. The singing stopped immediately. And there was a beat of silence.
Then a door creaked open in the back, and someone stepped out. He didn’t look surprised to exist. He just looked vaguely irritated that existence required effort.
His eyes landed on you.
Paused.
You watched the exact second he clocked that you were not a middle-aged man. His posture shifted almost imperceptibly. He straightened a little. Ran a hand through his hair like it wasn’t deliberate.
“Uh,” he said, then recovered. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
Another beat.
He looked at the book in your hand. “You looking for something specific?” he asked, tone sliding back into dry neutrality.
“I saw you had books,” you said carefully.
“We do.” he hummed.
You tilted your head slightly. “I didn’t realize it was… this.”
He followed your vague gesture toward the rest of the store. “The name didn’t give it away?”
“I thought it was ironic.”
He snorted softly before he could stop himself, then tried to disguise it as a cough. “Yeah. People think that.”
He walked behind the counter, movements loose but not careless. There was a slight stiffness to him, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands now that you were there.
“You have actual literature?” you asked. “Or is it all, you know—”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Define actual.”
“Something not shrink-wrapped.”
His mouth twitched. “Back left corner. Poetry. Fiction. It’s mostly used. People sell it when they need rent money.”
“Charming.”
You walked toward the back, hyperaware of the rest of the store. Your footsteps felt too loud. The hum of the lights felt louder. You crouched near the shelf he mentioned. The selection wasn’t terrible. Random, but not terrible. You pulled one out and skimmed the first page.
From the counter, he called, “That one’s decent.”
You glanced up. “You’ve read it?”
He shrugged. “I read most of them. It gets slow in here.”
There was something in his tone, not bragging, but not casual either. Like he needed you to know he wasn’t just some guy working at a porn store.
You stood and walked back up to the counter, book in hand. “So,” you said, resting your elbows lightly on the counter. “You work here voluntarily?”
He leaned back from the counter a bit, hands still resting on the edge. “Voluntarily feels like a strong word.”
“You could leave.”
“I could also starve,” he replied.
“Fair.”
He picked up the book from your hands to look at it. His fingers brushed yours briefly, He swallowed almost imperceptibly and focused very hard on the back cover.
“You actually going to buy it?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Cool.” Alex cursed himself mentally, cool? god, dude.
He rang it up, movements efficient but slightly tense, nervous under your watch, He dropped the book once — barely — and muttered, “Shit,” under his breath before setting it flat and scanning it properly.
You pretended not to notice. “You don’t seem like you belong here,” you said, watching him. His eyes flicked up to yours. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you seem like you’d rather be somewhere else.”
A pause.
“Yeah,” he said finally, giving a small shrug. “Probably.”
“So why stay?”
His jaw tightened faintly. There it was, that defensive edge.
“Money,” he said. “And I don’t have a trust fund.”
“I didn’t assume you did.”
“People assume a lot of things.” You held his gaze for a second longer than necessary.
“I’m not people,” you said lightly.
That caught him off guard. You saw it. The flicker. He looked away first, busying himself with the receipt printer. “Right,” he said, a little too quickly. The machine spit out the receipt with a loud mechanical whirr.
When he handed it to you, your fingers brushed again, this time more deliberately. Testing.
He froze for half a second. Not visibly. Just enough that you felt it. “You from around here?” he asked, tone casual but just slightly tighter than before.
“Yeah.”
“Cool.”
He nodded like that answered something important. “You?” you asked.
“Unfortunately.”
You smiled faintly. “You’re kind of an asshole, you know that?” He looked up at you slowly. “I’ve been told.” he murmured. “But like, not in a mean way.” you added.
“Good,” he replied. “I’d hate to accidentally have depth.” You laughed — actually laughed — and it seemed to knock something loose in him. His shoulders relaxed a fraction.
There was a brief silence.
“You can come back,” he said, like it was an afterthought. “For more… literature.”
“Oh, now it’s literature.”
“It always was.” He lied, you adjusted the book under your arm “Maybe I will,” you said. He nodded once, trying for indifferent and landing somewhere slightly hopeful.
ask for their number ask for their number
“Alex — I’m uh, alex by the way.” He quickly added, you looked over your shoulder at him, giving him your name before you left.
The door shut. The bell gave that weak, dying jingle and then the store went quiet again. Alex stood there for a second longer than necessary, staring at the glass like it might rewind the last five minutes if he focused hard enough.
“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath.
He replayed it immediately.
You can come back.
For more literature.
God. That was smooth. Truly groundbreaking stuff. He scrubbed a hand down his face and let out a slow exhale. Then, without thinking, he brought his palm down against the counter. A quick, frustrated smack.
“Fuck.” He could’ve asked.
It would’ve been easy. Casual. Hey, if you want, I could text you when new stuff comes in. Boom. Done. Instead he’d stood there like an idiot pretending he didn’t care.
He flexed his hand, jaw tight. Because now he had no idea if you’d actually come back.
