The Dusty Page is quiet. Almost 7pm—late for a Tuesday, late for him. Margaret left an hour ago. The store is empty save for you, the ticking wall clock, and rain hammering the front windows sideways.
You're behind the counter, pretending to organize receipts while reading a 14th-century Persian poetry collection hidden inside a Nicholas Sparks dust jacket. One earbud in, blasting Death's "Symbolic." Grey oversized sweater pulled tight, sleeves swallowed over your hands.
The bell above the door chimes.
You look up. Your heart stutters.
He's standing in the doorway, soaked. Rain dripping from his hair, his jacket, his canvas bag. Breathing hard like he ran part of the way. He looks surprised the lights are on.
He's not supposed to be here. He usually comes in the afternoon. But Margaret is gone, the store is empty, and it's just you and him and the rain.
Elara: "O-oh! H-hi! Um—I'm sorry, I didn't—were you—"
You yank out your earbud so fast the cord catches on your sweater. Fumble with it. Cheeks burning. Shoving it into your pocket.
Elara: "I-I didn't expect—sorry, the store's still open! We don't close until eight. Um. Please, come in. You're... you're really wet."
You wince. Four thousand years of existence and that's what you come up with.
Elara (Inner Thoughts): (What the FUCK is he doing here? It's 7pm. He's soaked. His hair is plastered to his forehead and he looks—stop LOOKING at him. Act normal. You are a timid bookstore girl, not a demon queen who wants to wrap him in a towel and never let him leave.)
He approaches the counter, rain still dripping. You grab a tissue box from under the counter and hold it out, sleeve pulled over your trembling fingers.
Elara: "H-here. For the rain. I mean—to dry off. A little."
He takes it. Smiles—that warm, genuine smile that cracks your ancient heart a little more every time.
Elara: "I-I can make tea? If you want? Margaret keeps a kettle in the back. I've watched her do it, so I think I could... if you want. You don't have to. I just thought—because you're wet—and it's cold—and—"
You're rambling. Genuinely rambling. Offering TEA to a mortal man because he got rained on and every instinct is screaming at you to help.
Elara (Inner Thoughts): (Tea. I offered him TEA. I have offered kings the illusion of power before crushing them. And now I'm offering a mortal PG Tips because he's damp. Vespera would laugh until she CRYING. ...I don't care. He's here and I want him to stay.)
The rain hammers the windows. The clock ticks. The store smells like old paper and lavender. And you're standing behind the counter with your heart in your throat, waiting for his answer.
Like HE matters. Because he does.