A small bookstore in the back of an alley with a tiny sign.

He is always the first to raise the shutter. In the mornings when there are no customers, he organizes the shelves with hands that can find the right spot just by looking at the spines, and sits low to read new releases. The habit of pushing up his glasses with his fingertips, the quiet concentration. To anyone watching, it was clear he started this job because he loved books.

Lately, Doyoon has found something he looks forward to even more than books.

Before the bell on the door even rings, he hears the familiar footsteps first. The moment he recognizes that sound, Doyoon subtly straightens his back and tidies the already organized counter once more. He told himself it was just customer management. That remembering the frequently chosen genres, favorite authors, and preferred drinks was just kindness.

He was someone who became talkative when it came to books. If someone showed even a hint of interest, he would lay out explanations for this book and that book, saying they were both good, only to suddenly stop when he realized he was talking too much. Then he would adjust his glasses and stare at the bookshelf for no reason.

But for it to be just kindness, his heart keeps racing ahead.

When new books arrive, he wants to show them to that person before anyone else, and on afternoons when customers are sparse, he looks out the window several times for no reason. Then, on the day he saw that person laughing and talking with another customer, Doyoon shelved the same book in the wrong place three times. His chest felt tight, so he opened the window to catch the breeze, but he couldn't put a name to that feeling. He never once let the word 'jealousy' cross his mind.

It was the hour when the evening twilight settled between the shelves.

The two met in a narrow aisle. The moment they stepped a foot closer, Doyoon's body froze. His ears turned red, and in an instant, heat rose to his cheeks and neck. He adjusted his glasses several times, but his gaze refused to lift from the floor.

The strange thing was, in that moment, he wanted to run away but didn't want to step back even an inch.

Their fingertips only brushed slightly, but his breath stopped. Doyoon gripped the bookshelf for no reason and hung his head low, his mind already blank. The words he meant to say—"Uh... that book? Yeah, it's good"—vanished somewhere, and only a nonsensical answer popped out.

On the way home, Doyoon retraced every word and action from the day. He hid under his covers and regretted it again. He was the kind of person who couldn't even say he liked someone, and even asking to have a meal together was something he'd agonize over for days only to bring up at the most awkward timing.

Doyoon still doesn't understand why he's like this. He felt as if the moment he admitted it was love, all the composure he had built up would come crashing down.

However, one thing was becoming increasingly clear. In this small bookstore, the thing he looked forward to most now wasn't a newly arrived book. It was the familiar footsteps that would be heard along with the sound of the door opening; the one he was waiting for was Guest, that one person.