The Reason | ✓

1: First Impressions

1: First Impressions

Oh dear, I think I'm in love.

I watch as he walks straight to the self-help section, looking over his shoulder continually as if to make sure no one is witnessing. But little does he know I'm a bookshelf away, holding a novel full of stars and galaxies gingerly as I watch him through the cracks of the panels.

He doesn't see me, but oh boy do I see him.

He's not from around here - that much is clear. Seattle may be a large city, but it's no place for sunglasses and rolled-up sleeves. I watch with curiosity as he shuffles through the dozens upon dozens of books that stack atop one another in a disheveled heap of paper and hardbacks.

His honey-bronze hair is swept back by his (unnecessary) sunglasses, taking place as a headband for his bangs would fall in his eyes. At least, that's what I'm predicting.

His loose, long-sleeved t-shirt is now sticking to his torso as if perspiring heavily despite the blasting air conditioners around the store, and, as he kneels down on one knee to get a better look at the bottom shelves, his black skinny jeans tighten even more around his legs and I find myself getting quite hot in the face, as well.

I quickly divert my gaze back to the book in my hands, and suddenly find no interest in the pages filled with black holes and crescent moons. Not when there's something - or, rather, someone - right before me that's actually tangible.

I find myself closing the book and, as I look up from the cover and back to the shelves, I'm left aghast - the boy is gone.

I step to the side, leaning closer to the holes between the stacks of books, just trying to see if he's gone further down the aisle. But he hasn't. He's disappeared.

"Miss?"

I jump as a voice sounds from behind me, whirling around to see who has caught me inconspicuously (or, so I had thought) spying on the boy with the too-tight jeans and flashy sunglasses.

Only to find that it's him.

And lord, he's even better looking up close.

Caramel eyes, bright with life, lined with bushy eyebrows and the longest lashes I've ever seen a boy wear. His jaw is stiff, as if he's pissed, and I drop my book when I realize that it's because of me.

The sound of the book clapping against the floor snaps me out of my haze, and when I lean to pick it up with a nervous hand, I find that he's already taken it into his possession. Our hands meet, reaching for the same book.

"Er, thanks," I mumble, although he doesn't give it back. His face now relaxed, he looks down at the cover with a small smile and then back at me.

"What is this about?" he asks, and his tone is raspy, like he's losing his voice.

I notch an eyebrow at the question.

Hesitantly reaching for the book, I slowly take it from his hands and read the title aloud for him. "'Galaxies and More'." He smiles and his face burns red in embarrassment. I relax a bit and let out a small breath, sort of relieved that he's a bit human after all.

"Oh," he peeps, and I suppress a giggle.

"What was it you were gonna ask me before?" I ask, recalling him scaring the life out of me only moments ago.

His eyebrows raise and he looks away as he says, "If you wanted an autograph you could've just come up to me and asked. You don't have to follow me and hide behind bookshelves y'know."

I laugh, unable to contain the tension anymore. Autographs? "I'm sorry," I say in between giggles, "but what are we talking about here?" He tilts his head and takes a tiny step back as if to get a better view of me. He stays silent, so I prompt him. "Autographs? Who are you - Bill Cosby?"

This brings out a chuckle from him, his eyes smiling from his cheeks and his lips spreading apart in a wide smile. "So," he starts, looking at me with such curious eyes, "you're telling me that you don't know who I am?"

I must've given him a funny look, because he laughs a bit more. I decide to deadpan him. "No."

His brows furrow and he checks me out, head-to-toe. My body is on fire, my cheeks burnt to a crisp, when he finally meets my eyes once more. "Who are you?"

I grin. The boy with the too-tight jeans and flashy sunglasses wants to know who I am. "I'm sorry sir, but I do believe you've left me empty-handed with my own question."

"Oh." He stares at me, as if outweighing his chances of whether telling me the truth is a good idea. And when his eyes spark and his lips turn into a crooked smile, I'm sure I've melted right then and there. Maybe talking to him isn't such a great idea after all.

"What?" I ask, the stress of having his eyes on me clear in my tone.

"How about we talk over pizza," he suggests, and my cheeks flame once more.

"I don't know about that..." Yes you do! my inner-Penny screams. Say yes, God dammit! Yes yes yes yes yes!

"Just say yes," he says.

So I did.

"Yes."