The disturbing thoughts must have shown on her face because Ruvon's shoulders began to slump again, uncertainty creeping back into his posture. He was so attuned to her moods that it was almost frightening. They weren't even a couple, and she'd donenothing to encourage his affections beyond basic politeness, yet her emotional state affected him profoundly.
She quickly offered another smile. "The book is perfect. I feel transported every time I open it, like I'm entering a magical world where everything is beautiful and nothing harsh can intrude."
The transformation happened again—spine straightening, chin lifting, that warm light returning to his eyes. Such a small thing, her approval, yet it changed everything about how he carried himself.
"Your gift means so much to me, but I can't keep chatting with you. There is a line of waiting customers behind you."
"Of course." He stepped aside. "I'll just browse for a bit."
As Arezoo rang up the next customer's purchases and the next, she watched Ruvon selecting more items and putting them in his basket. A loaf of sourdough, some of Yasmin's sugar cookies, a container of her mother's spice blend, and fresh vegetables that he examined with amusing seriousness.
"These tomatoes are perfect," the woman at the register was saying. "But these were the last ones. When will you get more?"
"We'll restock daily," Arezoo said, but she wasn't sure of that.
"Wonderful. I'll be back tomorrow, then."
Fenella emerged from the cold storage room. "You are completely out of grapes!" she announced with a mixture of triumph and dismay. "I can't believe how fast they went."
"At this rate, we'll be sold out of everything by noon," Soraya called back, but her tone was joyful rather than worried.
"That's a good problem to have," Parisa said. "Better than sitting on inventory."
When Ruvon approached the register with his selections, Arezoo was ready with professional friendliness that held just a touch more warmth than she offered other customers.
"Did you find everything you needed?" she asked, beginning to scan his items.
"Yes, and several things I didn't know I needed," he replied with a small smile. "Your aunts' baking is dangerous. I may have to increase my training to compensate."
She laughed. "You have nothing to worry about. I hear that immortal metabolism is amazing, and that it's really difficult to gain weight."
"It is," he admitted, then seemed to gather his courage. "Arezoo, I was wondering—that is, if you have time—would you perhaps read another poem for me some time? When you're not busy, of course."
She glanced around. The initial rush had calmed somewhat, and Rana had returned to help with customer questions, freeing Soraya to restock the shelves.
"I'm working the afternoon shift in the café. If you stop by near closing time, we can read some poetry over coffee."
His entire face brightened. "Really? That would be wonderful. Thank you."
She finished ringing up his purchases, their fingers momentarily brushing as she handed him the bag. Neither of them pulled away immediately, though the contact was brief and could have been dismissed as accidental.
"Fifty-three fifty," she said.
He handed her his card and carefully gathered his purchases. "I'll be at the café."
"See you later," she promised.
After he left, Arezoo found herself touching the spot where their fingers had met, wondering at her own boldness. When had his presence shifted from threatening to... whatever this was?
Another wave of customers arrived, and she lost herself once more in the rhythm of ringing up orders, taking payments, and putting groceries in bags. Still, throughout it all, she kept thinking about power and fear, about the delicate dance between men and women, and about the way a smile could transform someone's entire being.
The poetry book waited under her pillow in her room, patient as only ancient things could be. And somewhere in the village, a male walked taller because she'd acknowledged his gift with genuine pleasure.
Perhaps this was what healing looked like—not a dramatic revelation, but small moments of connection that slowly rebuilt trust in the possibility of kindness.
