stinky

Joaquin had laughed. Kissed the top of your head and called you dramatic. But now here you are, standing outside a shop that smells like old stories and newer heartbreak, watching Joaquin try to pull the door open with too much confidence and nearly smacking himself in the face.

“Graceful,” you say, reaching for the handle instead. “Very smooth.”

“Chivalry is alive and well,” he mutters, rubbing his forehead.

You laugh. He’s trying so hard. It makes your ribs ache with something warm. The bell over the door chimes when you walk in. You immediately forget how to breathe.

It’s everything. Wood-panelled floors that creak in a way that feels like history, handwritten signs on strings above every aisle, an old cat asleep on a pile of unsold hardbacks near the back wall. The kind of shop that smells like warm vanilla and worn leather and magic.

You make a sound, low and giddy, and Joaquin turns toward you like he’s watching a sunrise. He’s already smiling.

“Alright, beautiful,” he says, taking your hand, “where do we start?”

You lose yourself fast.

Within twenty minutes, you’re carrying a stack that reaches from your waist to your chin. Joaquin tries to take them off you gently, like you’re handling crystal instead of over-loved secondhand novels. His arms are full within seconds.

“You’re actually doing this?” you ask, squinting at him from behind another copy of something you’ve already read twice.

He shifts the weight in his arms and nods. “Yep. You pick, I carry.”

“That was a joke.”

“Too bad.”

You watch him from the side as he balances the pile. He’s in his soft blue hoodie, dark curls slightly messy from the wind outside, eyes full of something fond.

Your chest does a small, dangerous thing.

“I like you,” you say, like it’s brand new.

He pauses. “That’s good,” he replies, face straight. You both snort, quietly. He leans in, lowers his voice to something almost shy. “I really like watching you like this.”

Your heart misfires. You push a book against his chest to cover the feeling. “Shut up and carry this one too.”

You get lost in the fiction aisle for a full hour.

There’s a very specific kind of high that comes from touching old spines, running your finger down familiar titles, falling in love again with characters you haven’t seen in years.

Joaquin follows like a satellite. Close enough to reach for your hand when it falls to your side. Not close enough to interrupt the way your eyes sparkle when you talk about worldbuilding or how paper smells different depending on the publisher.

You find a copy of something you didn’t think existed anymore. You make a noise so loud the cat on the hardback pile stirs.

Joaquin startles. “What? What happened? Is there—”

You’re grinning. Radiant. Holding up the book like treasure. “I read this when I was fourteen. I thought I imagined it. It has a sentient swamp and a girl who can talk to crows and the plot is just—” You stop, laughing, shaking your head. “It’s so dumb. I loved it so much.”

Joaquin stares. Not at the book. At you.

You’re glowing with it. Real happiness. The kind that steals out of you when you’re not paying attention. The kind that wraps around his ribs like a ribbon. He wants to kiss you then and there.

Not like he does at night, slow and sleepy, with his thumb pressed behind your ear. Not like when you’re on the sofa and he’s got one hand up your hoodie and the other tangled in your hair.

No, this is different. This is public. This is messy. This is I’m so in love with you it’s stupid.

You notice him staring. “What?”

He gestures with his chin. “Come with me.”

You raise a brow. “Where?”

He adjusts the books in his arms, awkward, precarious, and leads you down a crooked aisle with titles in French and a whole shelf labelled ‘Birds and Betrayal’. You follow, bemused, until he finds what he’s looking for, a little alcove near the back, half-hidden by a pillar of travel guides and a toppled row of cookbooks.

It’s quiet. Very quiet. A little dusty. Lit by one dying lamp above.

“Joaquin,” you murmur, cautious, “are you trying to seduce me between old maps and vegan recipes?”

Joaquin sets the books down, just to free his arms.

“I’m trying,” he says, already reaching for your waist, “to kiss you without knocking over forty dollars worth of magical realism.”

Your mouth opens. You’re about to make some comment about being respectable in public. Then he kisses you.

It’s not obscene. Just a little inappropriate.

He presses you gently into the corner, hands warm on your hips, mouth soft against yours. You feel his smile before you see it. He kisses like he knows it’ll undo you, like he’s watched it happen before and wants to see it again.

You curl your fingers into his hoodie and let him. When you part, his forehead rests against yours.

“You’re ridiculous,” you whisper.

“You love it.”

You do. You really, really do.

By the time you reach the checkout, you’ve collected fourteen books, two bookmarks, and a free tote bag given to you by the older woman behind the counter who clearly thinks Joaquin is your husband.

He doesn’t correct her. Just slides his card across the counter without flinching and then carries all your books out like some sort of romantic mule.

You protest. Of course you do. Joaquin waves you off. “I’m strong. I lift. I do pull-ups for this exact reason.”

“You are such a show-off.”

You follow him onto the street, bag swinging from your shoulder, smile so wide your face hurts. It’s starting to drizzle. He pulls up his hood, grinning as you walk.

“Next time,” he says, “we start with the kissing and then get the books.”

You reach for his hand, twining your fingers through his.

“Next time,” you reply, “you bring a backpack.”

He laughs. You laugh. The rain doesn’t matter. You’re holding half a library. He’s holding your hand. That’s enough.

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