Chapter 4: Beneath the surface

Eleanor tried to sit up, but the pounding in her skull made her pause. The air felt too thick, and the dim glow of the bookstore's reading nook pressed down on her. She could feel the warmth of Nathaniel's coat where it had slipped from her shoulders—a lingering heat as if his presence still clung to the fabric.

Nathaniel was watching her, his expression unreadable.

She hated that.

She hated the way he observed her as if she were a puzzle worth solving—someone whose depths he wanted to uncover.

"I said I'm fine," she repeated, pushing herself upright despite her protesting limbs.

Nathaniel's eyes flicked over her, assessing. "You fainted."

"Yeah, I got that part." She forced a weak smirk, but he didn't return it.

Instead, he leaned back slightly, one arm resting on the armrest of the worn-out leather chair beside her. "When was the last time you ate?"

Eleanor stiffened.

"That's none of your business," she muttered, shifting to stand.

Nathaniel was faster.

With a quiet sigh, he reached into his suit pocket and pulled out something small—a neatly wrapped granola bar.

She stared at it.

"You carry snacks around?" she asked, disbelief lacing her voice.

His lips twitched. "No, I picked this up on the way here."

She frowned. "Why?"

Nathaniel didn't answer immediately. Instead, he extended the granola bar a little closer, like a peace offering. "Take it."

Eleanor hesitated, her pride warring with the gnawing hunger in her stomach.

Her fingers brushed against his as she took it, a spark of warmth—a barely-there connection that made her acutely aware of how cold her own hands were.

She unwrapped it slowly, her movements deliberate. She didn't want to appear desperate, even though her body craved sustenance.

Nathaniel didn't speak as she took the first bite.

She expected him to look away, to pretend he wasn't paying attention. But he didn't. He watched, quiet and composed as if confirming that she wasn't about to crumble again.

It was unnerving.

She swallowed and narrowed her eyes. "So, what's your deal?"

Nathaniel leaned back, his expression giving nothing away. "My deal?"

"You keep coming here. You buy books you probably already own in some grand personal library. You notice when I don't eat." She tilted her head. "Why?"

A pause. Then, in that same calm, deliberate voice, he said, "I like bookstores."

She scoffed. "Right. And I'm the Queen of England."

A quiet chuckle left him, low and smooth. "No," he mused, "I don't think you are."

She wanted to push further, to demand an actual answer. But there was something about the way he sat—completely at ease yet entirely unreadable—that made her second-guess whether she'd ever get a real one.

Instead, she took another bite, chewing slowly.

The silence stretched between them, but oddly, it wasn't uncomfortable.

After a moment, Nathaniel spoke again. "You live here, don't you?"

Eleanor's fingers tightened around the wrapper.

"Why do you think that?"

Nathaniel's gaze swept the room—the neatly stacked blankets in the corner, the extra pair of shoes half-hidden beneath the storage shelf, and the way she had locked up without leaving the night he hadn't shown up.

His voice was quiet when he said, "Because I notice things."

Eleanor looked away, her jaw tight. "You should stop doing that."

"Noticing?"

"Yeah."

A beat of silence. Then, "I don't think I can."

Something about the way he said it made her chest tighten.

She swallowed the last bite and crumpled the wrapper, shoving it into her pocket. "Look, Nathaniel, I don't know what you want from me, but I'm not some charity case."

His gaze didn't waver. "I never said you were."

"Good. Because I don't need saving."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "Everyone needs saving from something."

Eleanor's breath caught.

For a second—a brief moment—she thought she saw something shift in his expression: something raw and fleeting.

But then it was gone, hidden beneath that same cool exterior.

She hated that, too.

She stood abruptly. "You should go. It's late."

Nathaniel didn't argue. He simply stood as well, smoothing out the sleeves of his suit. But as he moved toward the door, he paused.

"You never gave me a recommendation tonight," he said.

She blinked. "Seriously?"

Nathaniel glanced over his shoulder, waiting.

With a frustrated sigh, she moved to the shelves, scanning the spines. After a moment, she pulled out *The Night Circus* and handed it to him.

He examined the cover. "A story about magic and illusion."

Eleanor crossed her arms. "Fitting, don't you think?"

Nathaniel's lips quirked. "Perhaps."

He paid, using exact change as always, and tucked the book under his arm. But before he stepped out into the night, he looked at her one last time.

"Get some rest, Eleanor."

And then he was gone.

---

The days that followed fell into an unspoken rhythm.

Nathaniel returned each night, always near closing. And each night, Eleanor found herself waiting for him—though she would never admit it.

He never pried. He never asked about the blankets in the back room or why she always...