chapter 4: pages between us

The bookstore smelled like old paper and dust warmed by afternoon sun — a scent Arin secretly loved. It was quieter than the café, tucked into a side street most people forgot about. Here, shelves leaned like tired friends against each other, their spines filled with worlds waiting to be touched.

Arin traced his fingers along the titles, notebook tucked under his arm. He’d come searching for a novel he’d half-read years ago, something about summer skies and gentle promises. But instead, he found Riven.

The alpha was already there, crouched near the bottom shelf, flipping through a thick novel. He looked out of place among the leaning shelves, tall frame folded awkwardly, but his focus was intent, careful — as though the book might bruise if he handled it wrong.

“Do you… come here often?” Arin asked before he could stop himself.

Riven glanced up, surprised but pleased. “Lately, yes. The owner recommends things.”

Arin’s brows lifted. “You read?”

A small smile. “Not as much as you, but… I like learning the worlds you disappear into.”

Heat crept into Arin’s cheeks. It was ridiculous — alphas weren’t supposed to say things like that. They were supposed to lead, to command, to demand omegas fit into their lives. But Riven spoke as if he wanted to step into Arin’s world instead.

They moved between shelves together, quiet except for the soft scrape of books. Arin found his missing novel at last — its cover worn, corners frayed — and hugged it like an old friend. Riven, after a long moment of scanning spines, held out a poetry book.

“I don’t understand half of this,” he admitted, “but it feels like the kind of thing you’d laugh at me for trying.”

Arin’s lips curved before he could stop them. “Not laugh. Maybe… smile.”

For a while, they sat on the worn rug between shelves, each with their chosen book. Silence wrapped around them, but it wasn’t heavy. It was the kind that breathed, the kind that made Arin’s heart feel strangely at home.

Halfway through a poem, he noticed Riven watching him instead of reading.

“What?” Arin asked, self-conscious.

Riven shook his head. “You look different when you’re happy.”

Arin blinked. “Is that… good?”

“It’s real,” Riven said simply.

The words landed softly, yet deeply enough that Arin closed his book before his hands betrayed their trembling.

---

By the time they left the bookstore, the sun had dipped, painting the sky in strokes of amber and lavender. Riven carried the small paper bag with Arin’s book tucked inside, insisting despite Arin’s protests.

As they walked down the narrow street, voices drifted from a nearby group of townsfolk. A pair of alphas leaned against a shop wall, their laughter sharp.

“Did you see that omega? Walking around with him?” one muttered.

“Brave little thing, clinging to someone like Riven,” the other sneered. “Doesn’t he know better?”

Arin froze, every nerve in his body going cold. He’d heard whispers before — omegas always did — but hearing it thrown at him so carelessly, so loudly, made his chest tighten.

Before he could shrink back, Riven’s presence shifted. Not loud, not aggressive — just a steady weight, a silence that cut sharper than any words. His gaze lifted to the pair, cool and unwavering, until their smirks faltered and they muttered excuses to leave.

The street was quiet again.

Arin’s breath shook. He hugged his notebook tighter, head bowed.

Riven didn’t touch him, didn’t push. He only walked beside him, voice low, grounding. “I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

Arin swallowed. “It’s… always been like that.”

Riven’s hand flexed at his side, but he kept his distance. “It shouldn’t be.”

For a long moment, they walked in silence. Arin thought the words would stay there, hanging heavy between them. But then Riven added, softer, “When you’re ready… I want people to see you with me, without fear. Not because you need protection. Because you deserve to be seen.”

Arin’s steps faltered. The weight of those words — steady, impossible — pressed warmth against the ache inside him. He turned his face away, cheeks burning, but the corner of his lips betrayed him with the faintest smile.

“Maybe,” he whispered, “one day.”

Riven’s answering silence wasn’t empty. It was full of promise.

---

That night, alone in his room, Arin opened his notebook. The lantern sketch from the festival still marked the last page. Beneath it, he wrote in careful script:

Maybe belonging doesn’t mean losing myself.

Maybe it means finding someone who sees me.

And, almost reluctantly, he added a final line:

Maybe that someone is Riven.

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