Her brown hair shimmers like gold when the sunlight hits it and her blue-grey eyes glow.
He sketches her sometimes as he sips his coffee, watching her walk around the store.
Her hands absently caress the spines of the books on the shelves, her touch gentle and tender as a new lover's. When a new song starts to play through the speakers, she starts to sway gently to the rhythm, never stopping her work.
He'll never forget her, he thinks. His muse.
He can't call it love, not when he doesn't even know her name.
Fascination, curiosity, or intrigue, maybe. Inspiration, beauty, and mystery, wrapped up in one, her long nimble fingers fly across her keyboard. Her brows are pulled together in focus, her eyes intent, mouth set in a hard line as she types away.
Cassian sketches it. His pencil could never quite do justice to the air of intensity and passion that surrounds her, contrasting sharply against the quiet stillness of the shop around them. But it's better than a photograph. The room is dark and dusty but she is so alive, hunched over her laptop. He doesn't know what she is writing — an email, a novel, or an essay? For his part, he doesn't write anything down. He can't think of an adequate title for the sketch.
Her voice sounds like water. A soft stream or a violent hurricane depending on her mood, but water nonetheless and he laments that he can't capture it on paper. No amount of watercolor sketches of her as a naiad can depict the way her voice flows, how its current sweeps him off his feet, or how it seeps into the cracks of his soul. Perhaps it is fitting that he can't recreate it on paper — it slips through his fingers like water, always yearning to be free.
Her voice is a whirlpool, drawing him in, closer and closer, until he realizes that he can't escape. He is addicted to her, the freshwater in his desert, and he can't even picture a day without seeing her.
It's accidental when they touch. It's the briefest of touches, a brush of their fingertips as she passes him the book he requested, but his skin tingles as though she branded him. Her lips sound out the title to confirm before she gives him the book, carefully and reluctantly as though handing over her newborn. Her hands are soft. His calloused brown skin contrasts sharply with her pale smoothness, and he decides to paint it when he gets home. He uses a large canvas he was saving for a rainy day and the oil paints he hasn't touched in three years. The painting is only their hands and the book between them, and it's his favorite.
He's sketching her eyelashes when it happens. She's at her desk, all the way across the room from where he's sitting. It's an unusually busy day for the shop, with three customers strolling around at the same time. She draws a long sip from the steaming mug besides her — he always wonders what it is that she drinks: coffee? Tea? — and looks up.
Her eyes meet his, and he knows she feels it too. The pencil drops from his hand and he stands up half-panicked. His eyes stay glued hers as he walks towards her, resulting in him bumping into many tables, chairs, and shelves. She's frozen in place. Her face is still, too, but he knows he sees the flickers of shock and recognition in her eyes.
Soulmates.
He knows he looks half-drunk as he stumbles towards her, tripping over the bag someone left on the floor. She finally blinks. Although he's still caught under her trace, she recovers from her shock enough to open her mouth. Her lips form the beginning of a word and she starts to speak — make just one sound in that flowing voice of hers — when suddenly arms close in around her. They circle her waist, holding her, and she turns around to face the owner of the arms. His chest hurts as he loses sight of her eyes.
"Tomas?" Her voice is saying, and Cassian feels like it is muffled, as though he is underwater. "What are you doing here?"
"I wanted to surprise you for our anniversary." The man's voice is raspy and deep. Cassian watches as the man picks up her bag and puts it on his shoulder. "I already got your boss to agree to let you off early. C'mon, we've got a reservation at our favorite restaurant." The man takes a step back, emerging from behind her into Cassian's line of sight. He notices the man's self-satisfied grin first, then his gelled, dark blond hair, his navy suit, and gold Rolex. She glanced around the shop, checking that everything is in order before she leaves. Her eyes meet his, just for a moment, before flicking away. As though she can't bear to test the connection between them, not here, not now.
Gucci black leather Oxford shoes tap impatiently against the floor. The man slips an arm around her waist, tugging her towards the door, and Cassian sees her ever-fierce eyes go dead. The energy, the fight, the strength that always seems to line her body leaves as she lets herself be escorted out of the shop. She spares him one final glance before the door swings shut behind her, and he almost wishes she hadn't. It hurts but he can't forget it, as much as he tries. It's seared onto the back of his eyelids and he can't even try to draw anything else. It haunts him, inspires him and torments him. The image of her staring back at him, just a spark of longing and wistfulness in her eyes, as she steps into the sunset, the man's arms trapping her, pulling her away from him.