Wisely blinked, “oh? I haven’t read those yet. I’ll have to pick them up.” He shrugged, “you’ve got me there.”
He smiled slightly, nodding, “alright, follow me.”
With that he turned on his heel and headed upstairs and down the hall into the room on the end, “I apologize for the mess, I’ve been working.” He let the door open on its own, rushing over to his desk to clear up some papers and open the curtains to let light in. “It’s on my bedside table, there,” He said, looking over his shoulder, “On the shelf over there is the books and poems I’ve written if you’d like to look through them.”
"Nah, don’t worry. My rooms way messier. I use it to stash books I want to read before customers come and get them," Lavi confessed with a chuckle, "Don’t tell Bookman though. He’d kill me if he saw the amount I’ve snuck off from the shop."
Lavi glanced around the slightly cluttered but otherwise tidy room. It had an airy feel to it, and suited Wisely perfectly. Upon hearing where Wisely’s own novels were located he forgot his original quest and crossed over to the shelf in a few quick strides.
He froze as soon as he saw the pen name.
"These…these are yours?" he whispered, reaching out and brushing his fingers tenderly over all too familiar spines. He knew these books. He knew them very well. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d flipped through them. How long he’d spent reading them until long past sunset. The tattered and taped and re-tattered edges of paper. And oh how crazy he’d felt that they reminded him of Wisely. That every phrasing and every story seemed to radiate his aura. He’d thought he was delusional. And here he was, having those delusions confirmed as fact. He sat on the bed in a breathless huff, stroking the front of a book he hadn’t realized he’d grabbed off the shelf.