The morning arrived with its familiar, merciless insistence: the shrill alarm splitting the thin silence of Liana's boxy room. She blinked groggily, searching the shadows on the peeling wall, half expecting to find last night's memories had faded with her dreams. But Damon's jacket hung over the back of her chair, a tangible reminder that kindness unexpected, confusing had crossed her path.
She sat up slowly, the bedsprings creaking beneath her, and ran a palm over the worn blanket. The air in the room was always a little damp, carrying the city's ache through the cracked window. Her gaze returned to the jacket, its expensive fabric so this can't be found here. She touched it, just to be sure. It was real. Too real. The weight of it brought back everything: the warmth of the car, the way Damon had said her name as if he meant it, the fleeting sensation that, for once, she'd been seen.
But magic never lasted. Reality had a way of rushing in, fast and cold.
Downstairs, the apartment was already alive with voices. Her adoptive parents' words ricocheted through the thin walls, sharp and as usual. Her mother's voice, always a little shrill when directed at Liana, rang out: "Melissa, hurry! You'll be late for your university class!"
Liana pulled on her thrifted jeans and a faded sweater, brushing her hair with her fingers. By the time she slipped into the kitchen, Melissa was descending the stairs her steps sure and light, hair gleaming, blouse crisp. She paused, eyeing Liana with the casual cruelty she'd perfected over years.
"Still wearing those?" Melissa smirked, nodding at Liana's battered shoes. "No wonder no one looks at you."
Liana glanced down, swallowing the retort that rose in her throat. There was nothing new in Melissa's words. She'd learned long ago that some wounds were safer left unspoken.
Her father sat at the table; his attention already fixed on his phone. He grunted, "Liana, the bookstore needs you today, right? Don't be late. That job may be worthless, but at least it keeps you busy."
Her mother, already bustling at the stove, added without turning, "And stop dreaming about things above your station. Some people are born for greatness, others for survival. Know your place."
The words stung, but Liana had learned to swallow pain like medicine: quick, silent, always alone. She nodded, grabbed her bag, and slipped out into the morning, the door closing softly behind her.
The street was still slick with last night's rain. Sunlight glinted off puddles and the city's pulse returned a thousand lives moving at once. Liana walked with her head down, passing vendors setting up their stalls and children in pressed uniforms running for school. She wondered, not for the first time, what it would feel like to be chosen, to be wanted by family, by fate, by anyone.
The bookstore was her sanctuary. Old wooden shelves, their spines sagging under the weight of forgotten stories, lined the walls. The familiar scent of paper and ink blows through her nose, soothing the raw edges left by home. She set down her bag, exhaled, and sat herself in the quiet ritual of opening for the day.
Time in the shop moved differently. Outside, the world rushed; inside, it drifted. She dusted covers, re stacked the shelves, and let her mind wander. Customers came and a mother buying schoolbooks, an old man searching for poetry each encounter brief and transactional. But Liana didn't mind. Here, she didn't have to be anyone's disappointment. Here, she could just exist.
The afternoon sun slanted through the dusty windows, lighting motes that danced in the air. Liana was shelving a stack of battered novels when the doorbell chimed. She looked up, expecting another regular, maybe the shy student who always hovered by the mysteries.
But it wasn't a regular. It was him.
Damon filled the doorway, incongruous in a navy suit that looked like it belonged in a boardroom, not between sagging bookshelves. His hair was perfectly styled, his shoes spotless. He looked, Liana thought, like he'd stepped out of another world entirely.
But his eyes those same searching eyes from last night were fixed on her. Not the books, not the peeling paint, not the faded rug. Only her.
"Hello again," he said, with the easy confidence of someone used to being welcomed.
Liana froze, heart thumping in her chest. She gripped the edge of the shelf, steadying herself. "W-what are you doing here?"
Damon's smile was gentle, more real than she'd expected. "I told you last night, didn't I? It's time we got to know each other."
She crossed her arms, hiding her nerves beneath a mask of skepticism. "This isn't a game. Guys like you don't walk into girls' lives for no reason."
He chuckled, a low sound that seemed to fill the small shop. "Maybe I just needed a good book."
"Or maybe you're bored."
He shook his head, eyes never leaving hers. "You're not boring, Liana. Not even close."
The words hung between them, charged with something she couldn't name. Liana felt the ground shift under her feet. She wanted to believe him and that scared her more than anything. She knew all too well what happened when you let yourself hope.
A heavy silence settled, broken only by the ticking of the old clock behind the counter. Damon glanced at the shelves, then back at her. "What do you recommend?"
Liana hesitated, then moved to a shelf, pulling out her favorite dog-eared novel. "This one. It's about someone who loses everything, but still finds a way to keep going. I guess… I like stories like that."
He took the book, his fingers brushing hers. For a moment, the world narrowed to the warmth of that touch the static of possibility.
"Thank you," Damon said quietly. "I'll take it."
As she rang him up, she felt his gaze linger. "You read a lot?" he asked.
Liana nodded. "Books don't judge. They don't care where you came from."
He smiled, softer now. "Neither do I."
She looked up, startled. For a moment, she saw past the suit and the polished exterior. She saw loneliness something that matched her own.
Damon slipped the book into his pocket, leaving enough money for three. "I'll see you again, Liana."
He left as suddenly as he'd arrived, the bell jangling in his wake. Liana stood there, heart pounding, the shop suddenly too quiet. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the aftershocks of hope and fear colliding.
Outside, the sunlight had shifted. Shadows grew longer. But inside, something fragile and bright had taken root a sense that maybe, just maybe, her story was about to change.
Yet even as hope flickered, doubt crept in. She knew the world could be cruel. She'd learned to expect disappointment, not rescue. And still, she couldn't stop herself from glancing at the door, half wishing he might walk through it again, half terrified that he would.
For the first time in a long while, Liana was afraid not of being invisible, but of being seen.