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"Hey," he says. "Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt your work."

"No, you aren't. I was just wrapping an order."

He holds up a brown paper bag. "I got you breakfast. Or, well, brunch. Bacon, egg, cheese on an everything bagel, right? You were eating it last week."

"Oh," you say, startled that he noticed. "Yes, I was. I don't usually get it because it's so expensive. Thank you. You didn't have to."

"Wanted to," he says simply and leaves the bag for you.

Jason lingers. He never goes behind the register with you unless you invite him. You always do.

"You can come," you say, leaning against the bookshelves behind you, like you're bracing yourself for his presence.

Jason goes, quiet as a mouse. Somehow, he knows how to shift his weight to avoid the creaking floorboards. He accidentally scared you the first few times and insisted on making up for it with your favorite tea from the cafe down the block.

"What book?" Jason asks, leaning on his elbows on the counter.

"Something in Russian. I have no idea what the title translates to."

You didn't know biceps could be that big in real life. Wow. If Jason flexed his arms, it would probably kill you dead. His skin is covered in white scars. Some are puckered, deeper, and some are flat and smooth. You ache to trace them and maybe bite the empty skin. His veins are plump lines on his forearm, drawing your eye to his large hands. The half-wrapped book looks tiny as he picks it up to inspect the cover.

"This word means environment," he says and scans the back. "Looks like nonfiction about climate change."

"You know Russian?" Just a few weeks ago, Jason had surprised you by helping a Japanese-speaking customer. "How many languages do you speak?"

"A few." He sets the book back down, resting his chin in his palm. "I know Russian the least, though."

The thing is, you've never had a chance to look at someone like this. Jason comes into the bookstore, and all you can do is stare, wondering how you got a handsome, sweet guy whose shoulders span the width of two shelves to bring you gifts like an affectionate crow. Jason never comes empty-handed, and you never have anything to give him in return besides getting overwhelmed when he sticks around.

"You're so cool," you say, heart beating faster when Jason looks at you. "You're like a spy."

He raises his eyebrows, beginning to smile. "Cool? Me? 'M really not."

He is, and he likes you. Probably not how you like him, but still, you like having a friend. And what can you do with that besides blurt nonsense? He smells so nice, like oranges. Hours after Jason leaves, you daydream about him crowding you against the counter, arms on either side of you, teasing you by delaying a kiss.

God. You need to put some physical space between you, lest you do something untoward. You set the wrapped book aside and go to shelve new arrivals. The first box is packed to the hilt, and you have to consciously bend your knees and engage your core to lift it. But then Jason's there, easily slipping it out of your hands.

"I got it," he says. "Where d'you want me?"

"Oh! Th-that's okay, you don't have to—"

"Want to," he says. "No trouble."

Big trouble! Big, ginormous trouble for you, actually. Your crush is worsening by the minute.

"Okay," you say weakly, guiding him across the shop to the fiction shelves. "Here is good. You can set the box down."

Jason does so and takes out a stack of books, dutifully holding them as you climb the ladder. You take one at a time to put away. He doesn't jitter or look around like he has somewhere to be. He's steady in his help, watching you and your movements the whole time.

"My boss might as well hire you on with how much you help me."

"Nah. I like being here. No charge."

"I can't imagine what's so appealing about helping me shelve books," you say with a laugh.

Jason's gaze is intense. "Plenty appeals me."

You look away, flustered. "Uh, well, it—it's certainly a good job! I like it. I just wish more people took advantage."

"Sure," he says. "Would do everyone a lotta good to read more."

"Exactly! Especially if people expect to preserve Gotham's culture, y'know? Transplants come here and rave about historical buildings and small businesses, but they invite the conglomerates to take over!"

You slide the last book into place. Whoops, that's an M not a W. The alphabetical order will be scrambled by the time you're done today. Your focus is in the pits. You lean over to find the M section.

"People don't know a good thing when they see it."

"Definitely." You shake your head. "Mr. Field says he doesn't know how long Bookends will stay open."

Jason gently takes the book from your hand, startling you. He's looking at you with that piercing, heady gaze again. Any semblance of a thought melts away in your brain.

"I won't let the shop close," Jason says, putting the book in its place without taking his eyes off you. "I swear."

"Oh! Gosh, I appreciate it, Jason, but you can't control local politics or gentrification."

"You'd be surprised." You watch him trace a groove in the ladder with a finger. You can feel his breath on your shoulder. "Don't worry 'bout it."

You must shift your foot wrong on the next step. The ladder wobbles, and you feel your balance split, tipping you backward. You yelp and reach fruitlessly for the shelf. But your fall is easy; you gently land in Jason's arms, inches away. He holds you by your middle, pressing you against him as he swings you off of the ladder and onto your feet.

"Y'alright?" he asks when you're grounded, looking you over for invisible injuries.

You nod, shaken more by the catch than the fall. "I—yes, I'm—I'm okay. You're strong." The observation comes out more breathless than you expect.

Jason digs his hands into his pockets, suddenly bashful. "I get by."

He does more than that. He might wear oversized shirts and baggy jeans, but nothing hides the sheer size of him. You're dizzy with it.

"Sure you're okay?" he asks.

"Uh-huh," you say, dazedly imagining how Jason could probably carry you around the shop all day. "I mean, yes, definitely! I just stepped wrong." You titter. "No worries. Thank you."

"Sure," he says, dutifully moving out of your space. Rats.

He looks like he's about to say more, but his phone rings. He answers it and his body language shifts. The lines of his shoulders are somehow harder. Sometimes Jason does that, maybe unintentionally: he reminds you that this is Gotham, and as sweet as he is, you really don't know much about him.

This city has been gentler on you than on others. Jason seems like someone who's been wrung through Gotham and came out the other side, alive but tough. You realized that he makes an effort to be soft with you after you saw how he dealt with a rude customer two weeks ago, and a new side of him emerged.

"Yeah," he says, clipped. He listens to the person speak a little. "Fine. Be there in ten."

He hangs up and his posture relaxes as he looks at you. "Hey. So, I gotta go. Work."

"Oh, okay." You know you sound disappointed; you can’t help it. Jason's the best part of your days. "Will you be back tomorrow?"

"'Long as I'm welcome," he says, like he really believes one day you'll banish him from the shop.

"Of course you are," you say. "You'll never not be. You're my best customer."

Jason rubs his neck. "Right. I'll see y'tomorrow then. Be careful on the ladder."

"I will. Thanks for the sandwich."

"Sure."

Jason starts to head out, taking his coat from the hook. You follow, itching to touch him. Your body works too fast for your brain, and you reach out before you can think about it, taking his hand. Jason freezes.

"Uh." You stare at your own hand in horror. Jason's hand is cool and calloused. Your hand feels like a hot iron against his. "Thanks. For catching me."

Jason looks from your hand to your face. He doesn't move. "'Course."

You pull away, embarrassed beyond reason. "Okay. Right. See you tomorrow."

He nods. "Tomorrow. Take care."