Chapter Text
Violet Sorrengail crosses one ankle over the other as she settles back against the trunk of her favourite Lunch Tree, a mistreated, excessively dog eared paperback on her lap, midday summer sun warm on her skin. The headphones in her ears play Noah Kahan at a volume that’s probably not advisable, but whatever, because there’s something magic about being completely and totally in her own world of dappled sunshine and folky guitar.
Except – not entirely her own world. Because just as she picks up her book, she can’t help noticing the two men crossing the lawn nearby, both in blue uniforms and heavy black boots.
She knows them in the way people can’t help knowing each other in a tiny town: that they often come through the library for meetings at the town hall, that the one with the dark hair and sharp features usually has a coffee thermos in hand, that the taller one almost always has a booming laugh and a joke ready. She knows they’re firefighters, she knows they play baseball on the weekends, but she doesn’t actually know their names.
Honestly, she doesn’t need to know them. They could easily just stay as those-cute-firefighters for the rest of time. But the thing about being a librarian – well, about being an enormous book nerd in general – is that Violet has a very well developed imagination; she’s surrounded by inspiration all day every day; and above all else, she is a chronic daydreamer.
And so: she’s christened them both with names from her current favourite fantasy. It adds a hint of amusement to the days when she sees Killian (the dark broody one) do something that makes his jaw look especially sharp, or Thom (the smiley tall curly haired one) act particularly flirty, just like his character absolutely, definitely would.
Violet watches them stride past, radios clipped to their belts, apparently deep in discussion about something or other (Killian serious; Thom nodding along) and she bites back a little grin.
They just fit the part so well! Like, okay, so they don’t have dragons, but their general competency is totally reminiscent of dragon riders, if she really puts her imagination to work. (Violet is very good at putting her imagination to work.)
Of course, the only problem that comes with naming two very real men after fictional characters is that now, Violet can’t help blushing when she sees them. Killian’s scenes in her book are descriptive.
She probably should’ve picked a less romantic fantasy, she thinks, absently wondering if his hair is naturally that windswept, or if he puts product in it. Or, at the very least, not named them after the main love interest and his sidekick.
And right then – that’s when he catches her eye.
The-man-who-is-probably-not-actually-called-Killian-but-has-the-cheekbones-to-play-the-part lifts one hand up in a small wave of acknowledgement, a grin on his perfect (Violet can’t help noticing) lips.
Violet feels her cheeks turn pink. She waves back nonchalantly, like she doesn’t have a pretend name for him, like she is not, in fact, a complete weirdo, and then looks back down at her book with fierce concentration.
She’s cool. Everything is cool. After all, it’s not like he has mind reading powers like his fictional counterpart. He has absolutely no idea what’s going on in her overactive brain – and more to the point, Violet reminds herself, he definitely doesn’t even care. He was just acting like a normal human, while she was lost, once again, in a daydream.
When she looks up again, they’ve disappeared around the corner, and she is alone with her book, and the gentle breeze, and her heartbeat.
–
It’s almost closing time later that day.
Violet is on her knees tidying the kids section, humming to herself. The library is open late on Thursdays, so the light filtering through the long windows is now shot with hues of gold and pink, the final rays of sun glinting off the stacks. She’s warm and happy on the soft rainbow carpet, focused on her mindless task, and it takes her a moment to realise there’s someone at the front desk.
She rises to stand, brushes off her faded jeans, and heads over to help whoever it is.
Her heart stutters, because her heart is an idiot.
It’s Killian. Or – god, she seriously needs to stop thinking of him as Killian, because she just cannot blush like this every fucking time she sees him. It’s actually ridiculous.
“Hey,” he says, one elbow resting on the counter of the desk. His dark hair falls across his forehead in a thick swoop, dark blue uniform sleeves rolled up his forearms.
“Hi,” she says, striving for normality.
“I just have some fire info sheets for you guys.” He pushes a few pieces of paper towards her.
“Oh, cool.” Violet nods her head. Still normal. Very good. Fire safety is important. She should probably say something else, but her mind, usually so very full of information, is completely blank.
“I’m Xaden, by the way,” he adds.
Fuck, he’s beautiful. Xaden.
Her gaze flicks down to the name badge above his chest pocket where the name Riorson is embroidered in capital, blocky letters.
Huh. It’s a name that would fit nicely in a romantasy, she can’t help thinking.
Xaden Riorson leans comfortably against the counter. He’s got to be at least 6’2. (Anything over 5’10 Violet just thinks of as Tall.) She has to look up to meet his gaze, and for some inexplicable reason looking directly into his dark eyes makes her want to blush even harder. What the fuck is wrong with her? He’s just doing his job. She is just doing her job (although right at this moment she's not exactly doing anything). There is absolutely nothing loaded or sexy about this interaction, and yet.
She makes a mental note that it might be a good idea to take a break from all the romance novels.
“And you’re Violet, right?”
Violet blinks, surprised that he would know her name. “Yeah. Hi.”
His eyes crinkle into another smile. “Nice to meet you properly, Violet.” And then he’s pushing himself back from the counter, he’s walking backward toward the exit, those onyx eyes still on hers. “See you around.”
She nods, and waves at him in what may be the dorkiest, goofiest wave of all time. Not that it matters. Not that any of this matters. “See you.”
He disappears through the double doors, out into the darkening summer evening.
Later, Violet will remember the way the light caught his hair, his strong silhouette. She’ll remember that it felt like a pastel, Murakami kind of dream, unreal and real all at once, unremarkable; wonderful. She’ll marvel that she didn’t even realize her life had just changed.