Checked Out: Part 2

 She thinks this is about a chair. She thinks it is about a specific patch of ruby velvet and a schedule that never wavers. She’s wrong. I’ve spent weeks watching her from the margins, memorizing the way she bristles when I’m in her space and the way she smells like vanilla and sharp morning air. Now that I have her planner—and her name—the silent war is over. It’s time to see if I can finally make her lose her place on the page.

Part II: Remy

I walk out into the rain, not even bothering to pull up my hood. I am grinning like an idiot, and the cold water hitting my face is the only thing keeping me from laughing out loud—or maybe from groaning. My chest feels tight, and my blood is humming in a way that coffee could never justify.

Getting a rise out of Juniper is easily the highlight of my week. It’s too easy, honestly. She walks into The Dusty Spine like she’s on a mission to organize the very atoms in the room, her spine so straight I sometimes wonder if it would snap if I actually touched her. The second she sees me in her chair, she looks like she’s about to combust, and it’s fascinating. Most people would just sigh and find a different corner. But not Juniper. She turns a piece of furniture into a battleground, and I’ve realized lately that I am well and truly addicted to the war. I find myself getting to the shop earlier and earlier just to ensure I’m the one sitting in that ruby velvet throne when she arrives, just to see that specific spark of indignation ignite in her eyes. It makes her look alive. It makes her look like she’s not just a collection of schedules and sensible shoes.

I head toward the coffee shop down the street, my hands shoved deep into my pockets. I keep replaying the look on her face when I mentioned the planner. She was definitely flustered. I’ve been carrying that neon pink thing in my bag for three days now, and every time I zip it shut, I feel like I’m carrying a live wire. I’ve looked at it more than I should admit. I haven’t read her private thoughts—I’m not a total prick—but I’ve seen the way she maps out her life. It’s all columns and checkboxes. Every minute of her day is accounted for, leaving absolutely no room for someone like me.

I’m a person who lives in the margins, and she is a person who colors strictly within the lines. The friction between us is electrifying. I like the way she bristles. I like the way her pulse jumps in the hollow of her throat when I stand up and tower over her. I’ve spent more time than is strictly healthy imagining what it would take to make that pulse skip for a completely different reason.

I don't actually care about the chair. I could sit on the floor in the middle of the aisle and be perfectly content as long as I have a decent book. But there is something about the way she guards that specific patch of ruby velvet that draws me in. She’s so intense about her sanctuary. There is a wild, beautiful fragility to that kind of rigidity, and it makes me want to reach out and mess up her perfectly ordered reality just to see what’s underneath the planner and the clicking heels. I want to be the variable she didn't account for. I want to be the reason she breathes a little faster.

I order a black coffee and lean against the counter, watching the rain streak the window. The shop is loud, but my mind is still back in that corner.

She’s going to be so annoyed when she realizes I didn't actually leave because she asked me to. I have a shift starting at the archive library in twenty minutes. It’s a subterranean world of dust and silence—the exact opposite of the chaotic spark that Juniper carries with her. I’m the guy who disappears into the stacks, filing away history that everyone else has forgotten. It’s quiet work, lonely work, which is probably why I spend my free time trying to provoke the most vibrant person I’ve ever met.

I could have stayed longer today. I could have pushed her buttons until she finally snapped. Seeing her eyes widen when I called her by name was a rush I wasn't prepared for. I wanted her to stop looking at me like a nuisance and start looking at me like a man. A man who has been paying attention to the way her perfume—something like vanilla and sharp morning air—lingers in the upholstery long after she leaves. A man who knows exactly how she looks when she’s frustrated, and who is starting to wonder how she looks when she’s satisfied.

I take a sip of the bitter coffee and think about her name. Juniper. It fits her perfectly. It sounds a bit sharp, a bit prickly. But if you get close enough, it has a certain kind of richness to it. It’s an old name, a sturdy name. It feels like something that was meant to be planted deep, not tossed around in the wind like I usually am. My life is a collection of temporary apartments and half-finished projects. I don't leave tracks. But Juniper is grounded. She is an anchor in a way I’ve never experienced, and for the first time in my life, I feel like I might want to stay in one place long enough to see what happens next.

I pull the planner out of my bag and set it on the counter. I flip it open to today’s date again. 3:00 PM: Bookstore. 4:00 PM: Project Review. 5:30 PM: Gym. She’s a machine. I find myself wondering what she would do if she just… didn't. What if she skipped the gym and just sat in that chair until the sun went down? Would she fall apart, or would she finally breathe? I want to be the reason she’s late for something. I want to be the chaos that makes her realize the world keeps spinning even when the checkboxes aren't marked. I want to take her to a place that doesn't have a schedule, somewhere the only clock is the rising and setting of the sun, just to see what kind of person she is when she isn't performing for her own expectations.

I probably should have handed it over today. I’m a glutton for punishment, clearly. Now I have to figure out a way to give it back tomorrow without it seeming like I’ve been obsessing over it. Although, at this point, that’s exactly what I’m doing. My life has become a series of countdowns until 3:00 PM. It’s pathetic, really. A twenty-five-year-old man who is suddenly acting like a lovesick teenager because a girl with a planner is annoyed by his presence. But then again, maybe I’ve been looking for a reason to stop drifting. Maybe I’ve been waiting for someone to give me a reason to stay put.

I finish my coffee and step back out into the downpour. I find myself walking past the bookstore again, even though it’s out of my way and I’m already running late for the library. I slow down as I pass the window, looking through the gold-lettering on the glass.

There she is.

She’s curled up in the chair now, her legs tucked under her, a book held in her hands. But she isn't reading. Her gaze is fixed on the door, her expression uncharacteristically soft. The fire I usually see in her eyes has died down to a low, warm ember, and my chest tightens. It’s not the thrill of the prank war anymore. It’s something quieter, something much more distracting.

I’ve spent months being the guy she loves to hate, and suddenly, I’m wondering if I have the heart to keep that up. I don't want to be the villain in her day anymore. I want to be the reason she smiles. I want to earn the right to sit in that chair with her, not against her. I want to be the person she looks for when she walks through that door. I want to be the one who makes her throw that planner in the trash and live for the moment.

I reach the library, my wet hair dripping onto my shoulders and soaking into my hoodie. The basement of the archive is freezing, and the smell of ozone and old glue is stifling, but it doesn't matter. I have to make it through the next four hours of shelving old maps and cataloging records. It’s a miserable shift, mostly because my mind is elsewhere. All I can think about is the way she looked in that chair. The way she smelled. I catch myself tracing the gold embossing on her planner through the fabric of my bag while I’m supposed to be documenting property deeds from 1920.

I pull out a stack of ledger books and start filing, but every movement is mechanical. My pulse is still hitched from that interaction. I keep running the sound of her voice through my head, the way she said "That is wildly inappropriate," and I want to laugh. It was inappropriate. It was bold, it was stupid, and it was the most honest thing I’ve said to anyone in years. I’m usually so guarded, so careful to stay on the surface of things. But with Juniper, I want to dive in. I want to see how deep the water goes.

I’ll give the planner back tomorrow. Or maybe I’ll wait until Friday. I need an excuse to keep seeing her, and right now, that pink book is the only thing standing between me and being just another stranger she glares at in the aisle. I find myself wondering if she’s noticed the little smudge on page forty-two where I accidentally dropped a crumb of my sandwich, or if she’ll realize that the bookmark I tucked inside—a dried leaf I found on my walk—wasn't there before.

I lean against the circulation desk, staring at the clock. Four hours to go. I have never been so impatient in my life. I think about her heels clicking on the floor, her clipped "excuse me," and the way she vibrated with indignation. I could spend a lifetime learning how to make her that worked up, and I think, in the process, I might just learn how to care about something other than myself. I imagine what her laugh sounds like. I bet it’s rare. I bet it’s the kind of sound that makes you feel like you’ve just won the lottery.

I know, with absolute certainty, that tomorrow I will be the first one in that store. I will get there before the doors even unlock. I will claim the chair. And then I will wait for her to come and argue with me, just so I can hear her say my name again.

Next time, I won't just brush her shoulder. Next time, I might actually ask her what’s so important about those spreadsheets. And maybe, if I’m lucky, she’ll forget to check her watch for five minutes. Maybe, if I push hard enough, she’ll realize that the most important thing on her schedule should be us. I close my eyes and imagine her in that chair, not waiting for the door, but waiting for me. It’s a dangerous fantasy, a beautiful disaster, but for the first time in a long time, I don't want to run away. I want to stay. I want to see how this disaster of a romance unfolds. I’ll make the first move, and then the second, and then I’ll wait to see if she follows me into the chaos. Because for the first time, I think she might actually be dying to join me there, even if she hasn't checked it off her list yet.

Come back for another story.

A Note from LS Phoenix: Welcome to Remy’s head! I know I said I was taking a bit of a breather this week, but I couldn't resist giving you a glimpse into the "Bookstore Guy’s" perspective. There is just something about a man who is a little bit obsessed and a whole lot of trouble.

I’m currently heads-down working on the upcoming Regency fairy tale retellings and finishing up the final touches for Alaskan Storm (mark your calendars for July 1st!), so this shorter, high-tension story was the perfect creative reset. I hope you’re enjoying the heat between these two as much as I am!

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: April 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix