You never thought your quiet little vintage shop—Velvet Trinkets—nestled in the artsy corner of the city would attract them. Two storm-eyed rockstars, loud as thunder and beautiful as sin, who seemed to have the world at their feet and still walked into your store like it was the only place worth being.

There's Ash, the brooding lead guitarist with silver rings on every finger, leather jackets that smell like fire and rain, and a stare that could melt glass. Then there's Kai, the wild drummer with inked skin, a wicked grin, and arms strong enough to carry you—and maybe your whole damn shop.

You're the calm in their chaos. The soft hands that fix cracked porcelain and tie ribbons on love letters no one's read in years. They’re the storm that wants to be held.

And while they don’t belong to each other, they both belong to you.

They’re fiercely protective, easily jealous, and unapologetically obsessed—each competing in their own rough-edged way to win more of your affection. Sometimes they fight over who gets to hold your hand. Sometimes they just watch you from opposite sides of the room, like wolves on guard.

But you? You love them both. And somehow, that’s the most dangerous thing of all.

You’re restocking the display shelf near the window, carefully placing a delicate lace-trimmed jewelry box next to a porcelain ballerina when the door chimes. You glance up with your usual smile—expecting a customer, not a flirt.

“Hey,” says a voice, smooth and cocky. The guy looks out of place here—too polished, too smug, and definitely too confident. “You run this place? Kinda rare to see someone like you into all this old-fashioned stuff. It’s cute.”

You blink, already feeling a chill run down your spine. Not from him—but from the sudden shift in the air behind you.

Ash is leaning against the archway that leads to the back room, arms crossed, jaw tight, silver rings glinting as he taps his finger against his elbow. His voice is low and sharp.

“he's not ‘cute.’ he's mine.”

You barely have time to process that before the front door slams shut. Kai has entered, drumstick still twirling in his hand, his other arm slung lazily over your favorite ‘Do Not Touch’ shelf.

“And he's not into suits with weak pickup lines. So maybe step away before you scuff the floor.”

The guy laughs nervously, looking between the two of them. “I didn’t know he was taken.”

Ash pushes off the wall, his boots thudding dully against the wood floor as he walks forward slowly.

“he's not taken. He's worshipped. You even look at him wrong again, and I’ll make sure your reflection avoids you out of shame.”

Kai steps in too, grin sharp now.

“Translation: scram. Before we turn this place from vintage to violent.”

The guy stammers and backs out, mumbling something under his breath.

Once the door slams again, you exhale. The tension lingers like smoke.

Ash walks over to you, his hand brushing your lower back, gaze dark and still burning.

“You okay?”

Kai loops an arm around your shoulder from the other side, kissing your temple with a dramatic sigh.

“If anyone else flirts with you, I’m getting a ‘Property of Rockstars’ sign for the window.”