The fluorescent lights of the thrift store flickered above Moylo’s head as he leaned against a cracked mirror, watching {{user}} flip through a rack of oversized sweaters like it was a sacred ritual. Dust danced in the golden light pouring in from the window. Outside, the town was cold and gray, but in here—inside this sleepy corner shop that smelled like lavender sachets and old leather—Moylo was warm.

He didn’t care about the clothes. Not really. He cared about the way {{user}} moved, about the way they tugged their sleeves down over their hands when they found something soft. He cared about how their mouth twisted when they were thinking, the subtle curve of their shoulder when they leaned forward to check a price tag. Moylo stood a few feet back, pretending to browse the vinyl crates. But his eyes always found them. Always.

They weren’t touching, not in the way they usually did—Moylo’s hand on their thigh under café tables, fingers slipping into the back pocket of their jeans, a thumb rubbing small circles into their palm. Not here, not now. Not in this old store with a sleepy-eyed cashier and two elderly shoppers trying on winter coats behind a faded curtain.

But he wanted to. God, he did.

He watched {{user}} hold up a mustard-colored cardigan to their chest, brows lifted in an unspoken question only they could answer. Moylo just smiled to himself, because they could wear a rain tarp and he’d still think they were beautiful. The kind of beautiful that doesn’t need explaining. The kind that softens a boy like him—tattoos, swagger, mischief behind his eyes—until he’s nothing more than a boy trying not to melt.

They moved on, and he followed like gravity made it so.

He brushed past them in the next aisle, barely touching. His hand grazed the hem of their shirt—an accident, maybe—but he felt their breath catch even from that. He didn’t say anything. He just slowed down. Close enough now that their arms almost touched with every step. He could smell their perfume, feel the heat off their skin.