Then came Daniel.
He came in every Thursday at four looking for something dense and mechanical, then stayed until closing with those calloused hands, quiet eyes, and a laugh that caught both of us off guard the first time it slipped out.
“Margaret,” he murmured one Thursday, sliding a book across the counter, “do you ever read these, or do you just judge the men who do?”
“I judge.” I tapped the spine. “Silently. It’s a librarian’s privilege.”
Daniel grinned.
“What’s the verdict on me?”
“Still pending!”
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