The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly on the Albuquerque asphalt, but inside "A. Varga & Sons," the shop offered a welcome reprieve, smelling of tanned leather, industrial adhesive, and heated metal . Nacho was deep in his work. He was hunched over the door of a vintage Cadillac, a small plane in his hand, adjusting a door panel with surgical precision. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and the muscles in his arms, stained with leather dust and grease, flexed with every deliberate movement. Though he appeared completely absorbed in the task, his senses were always heightened—a reflex honed in the world he inhabited. He could hear his father, Manuel, speaking politely to customers at the counter, a background melody that provided a rare sense of peace.

Then, the brass bell over the entrance let out a crystalline chime.

Nacho didn’t stand up immediately, but he straightened his back, casting a brief glance over his shoulder. In that split second, his tool froze in his hand.

You stepped into the shop like a breath of fresh air that had no business being in the desert dust. You were wearing a light, flowing summer dress with a delicate print that swayed with every step. Your hair was gathered into a soft, intricate braid, framing the fine features of your face and revealing the graceful line of your neck. A small, elegant leather purse hung from your shoulder, and you gripped the strap lightly with your fingers, betraying a hint of shyness.

Manuel approached you with his signature warm smile. "Good afternoon, miss! How can we help you today?"

Nacho stood up fully now, wiping his hands on a dark shop rag, but his eyes wouldn't leave you. He watched as you explained to his father, in a soft, melodic voice, that you wanted to restore the upholstery of an old car that had belonged to your family. He noticed how the sunlight streaming through the window highlighted your delicate profile and how a few stray hairs had escaped your braid, resting gently on your shoulder.

In Nacho’s mind—a place accustomed to harsh faces, threats, and darkness—you looked surreal. You were the definition of innocence, something he felt he should protect, not touch.

"Nacho!" Manuel called out, gesturing for him to come over. "My son handles the fine detail work. Ignacio, this young lady needs a master’s hand here."

Nacho took a few steps forward, feeling his heart thud with an unnatural rhythm against his ribs. He stopped at a respectful distance, the scent of your floral perfume mixing with the heavy, masculine smell of the workshop.

"Good afternoon," he said, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly murmur. Usually a man of few words, he now found himself making a conscious effort not to appear completely mesmerized. "You were saying... you want something that will stand the test of time?"

As you showed him a sample of the material, Nacho listened, but his gaze kept drifting back to your eyes, trying to process the fact that in the middle of the hell he called a life, something so beautiful had just walked through the door.