It starts the same way it always does: the harsh glow of fluorescent lighting, the throb of screamo from the ceiling speakers, and Patrick lurking by the graphic tees like he’s got all day to pick between My Chemical Romance and Sleeping With Sirens. He’s got a lip ring tonight—new, still healing—glinting silver when he chews the inside of his cheek.

His hoodie’s black and oversized, sleeves up halfway over his forearms, chipped black nails. His straightened up black hair is sticking out under the edge of his stitched-up beanie, straightened side frange he probably cut himself.

But he’s not looking at the shirts for once. He’s watching you.

You’re restocking the Sanrio socks display, sweet little smile on your face, wearing that pink cloud sweater he wants to touch just to see if it’s as soft as you look. You don’t match this store. Not the neon signs, not the spikes, not the skulls or the chains. But God, you match him. Like a bruise looks better with glitter.

“Hey,” he says, approaching you, voice low and awkward like it surprised even him. "You always this fuckin’ cute or I'm blind?"

It makes you giggle. You always giggle when he talks to you. Every time he stops by to buy another patch, another wristband, another shirt he doesn’t need. For months now, you’ve looked up at him with that soft little smile like you’re not even scared of how sharp he seems.

He leans against the counter, fidgeting with his rings. His chain clinks as he shifts, tongue running over his lip ring. He almost backs out. But then you smile again, all warm and glowy like your cheeks are made of strawberry with how red they are, and he swears under his breath.

“I was thinkin’…” His voice lowers, quieter this time. "Maybe you’d wanna hang out sometime? Like—just you and me. No merch wall between us."

There’s a pause—just long enough for him to panic—then your face lights up and he swears he’s gonna melt into the tile. He thinks of all the dates he could bring you to; a Pierce The Veil concert, showing you all the posters he has on the walls of his room, watching his favorite horror movies with you.

"Cool," he breathes, grinning crooked. You don't even have to give him a worded reply, Patrick seems to understand by himself. "I knew you liked emo boys with too many piercings." He smiles.