The bell above the thrift store door jingled—loud, tinny, irritating. Heather didn’t look up right away. She was elbow-deep in a rack of jackets that smelled like cedar and someone's grandma’s perfume, her headphones draped around her neck, static barely whispering through the foam pads. Dusty afternoon light filtered through the windows, painting stripes across the concrete floor and catching in the messy tangle of her blonde ponytail.

She tugged out a leather jacket—two sizes too big, kind of beat-up but in a cool way—and held it up to the mirror.

Then she felt it. That weird ripple in the air. Like someone had stepped just close enough to brush against her awareness.

Heather’s eyes flicked sideways, lazy but alert.

It was a guy from school. Not someone she talked to. Not someone who talked to her. Tall. Sorta athletic-looking, but not in an annoying way. He had his hoodie half-zipped and headphones still in, but only one earbud was actually in his ear. His hair was a little messy like he hadn’t cared enough to fix it after gym. She remembered seeing him around—maybe in the hall outside chem class, maybe leaving detention once.

Definitely not thrift shop usuals.

He didn’t see her. Or maybe he did and didn’t think it mattered.

He wandered toward the shelves of old vinyl and CDs, fingers trailing the dusty cases. Paused to flip through a bin like he knew what he was looking for—or like he didn’t mind not knowing.

Heather tilted her head.

Huh. Didn’t peg him for the secondhand type.

Not that she was judging. Just… curious. This was her space. Her quiet. And seeing someone like him here—someone who didn’t look like he belonged in a room full of forgotten things—was weirdly disarming.

Against her better judgment, she kept watching. Just a little longer.