Chapter Text
As you finished school and were unsure what to do, you moved to a small town to clear your mind. And also for the aesthetic of it. You didn't want to live with your parents anymore, as you were kind of getting on each other's nerves, so you decided it was best to put some space between you all
You work in the local library. You have decent co-workers, although you're convinced they don't like you. They shoot you nasty glares once in a while, but that doesn't bother you. The job pays well, and you enjoy it heavily. In your small town, there aren't many employment opportunities. So when an advertisement for the library, which you already almost lived in, popped up, it was like a gift from heaven.
Getting paid to walk around, read, and smell the old books that the library consists of is like a dream. Of course, you do have to help the occasional customer.
The store only has a few regular customers, as the town doesn't consist of many people. Usually, it's calm and quiet, just the way you like it.
You almost knew all of the people who came to visit your workplace, but one of those regular customers was a little bit peculiar and distant.
Usually, the regulars eventually tell you their names and make small talk with you. Some even come there especially to talk with you, mostly elderly visitors. You don't mind one bit. You love talking and catching up with the village gossip, all while still getting paid.
But one regular didn't. The first time you saw him, he got in, greeted you with a small, almost unnoticeable nod, and went straight to the poetry section. You suspected that he wasn't all about small talk, so you didn't want to bother him with it. When he was done picking out a piece of literature, he'd come to the small checkout corner and only say the most necessary words.
"That will be $6,99. Cash or card?"
"Card."
"Alright, would you like me to wrap it up?
*He shakes his head.*
"Okay, do you want a bag with that?"
"Yes."
"Alllright, there you go. Have a nice afternoon!"
*Nod.*
Another thing that separated him from the rest was the fact that he always wore a black balaclava. You figured that he wouldn't want you to ask questions about it, so you didn't. At least, not right away.
Weeks went by, with him visiting at least 4 times a week. Sometimes he wouldn't visit for quite some time and then come back as if nothing happened. You wanted to ask him about it, but again, since he wasn't that talkative, you decided not to.
But when he left again for 2 whole weeks and then returned with his arm in a brace, you couldn't help your curiosity.
"Good afterno- Oh my god, is everything okay?"
You ask, with a concerned look on your face. The man chuckled slightly at your reaction, looking at his arm.
"It's nothin'. Sprained my wrist."
He returns his gaze to you while you continue to look concerned for him. You remain staring at his brace, but if you didn't, you might have seen him slightly smile underneath the mask. His eyes squint a little.
"How did you manage that?"
You ask out of habit. When you realize that he probably doesn't want to tell you and that it's none of your business, you quickly add:
"You don't have to answer that."
With an apologetic look on your face, you meet his eyes. They don't seem mad or annoyed at all, despite you thinking he would be. Instead, he answers kindly.
"It's fine, I work in the military."
He says it so casually, but your eyes widen as you now connect the dots. That's why he's sometimes gone for a week, that's why he's so... big. And that's probably why he wears that mask.
You let out an "Ahaa..." and then let him get on to his usual spot, the poetry section. You notice that he mainly buys works like Dostoevsky, Charles Dickens, and Pushkin. He has great taste in books if you say so yourself.
After about 20 minutes, he comes your way again. You sit behind the small checkout on a high chair, reading a famous work of Donna Tartt: 'The Secret History'. You put it aside, but before you can put it down, the man in front of you unexpectedly says something.
"Great book."
He points slightly at the book you're reading and nods at you.
Surprised by his sudden words, you're left silent for a second, before making conversation with him.
"Oh, yeah! I like it so far."
He silently hums a faint agreement and puts his chosen book on the counter. It's another poetry book. You smile at him and type the price of the book into the cash register. He carefully watches you, his eyes darting between the register and your face. You notice him looking at you, but it's nothing new. He watches everything so thoroughly, that sometimes you think that he's got everything figured out about you, but in reality, you don't even know his name.
When asking the usual questions, he suddenly cuts you off.
"Cash or ca-"
He holds his credit card up and asks you a question in return.
"What's your name?"
"Oh, it's y/n! What's yours?"
He hesitates. You can see him thinking about it. Then, he answers confidently.
"Simon. Pleasure to meet ya, y/n."
Now that he talks a little more, you notice a thick British accent. You don't mind it though, it fits him quite well actually.
"It's a pleasure to meet you too, Simon!"
He finishes his payment and then turns to the door. He gives you a little wave, which he usually does as well. He's in a talkative mood today because he doesn't stop there.
"I'll see ya next time."
"Yes! See you soon! Bye bye!"
You wave back at him, and with that, he leaves. You didn't even notice yourself smiling, yet here you are. The soft classical music in the background continues playing in the now-empty library. You're the only employee on duty for the afternoon, but you don't mind at all.
With a stupid smile plastered on your face, you return to your book and try to focus on the words on the pages, but your mind can't help but wander off...