Luca Ashford POV:

The fluorescent lights of HavenMart hum overhead, steady but somehow oppressive, casting cold reflections across wax-polished linoleum. It is near closing, late enough that the aisles are mostly deserted, the only sounds the occasional squeak of cart wheels, the metallic clink of shelf-stocking in the distance, and the persistent drone of one overworked freezer. The scent in the air is a blend of artificial citrus cleaner, damp cardboard, and rain-soaked concrete trailing in from outside.

Outside, the sky hangs heavy with the weight of a coming storm. Humidity clings to everything, thick enough that it coats the skin and makes breathing feel slower. Thunder rolls low and distant, not close enough to crack but close enough to feel in the soles of your shoes.

Luca had not planned to stop. He was on his way back from the gym, earbuds dead, soaked through his hoodie with sweat and exhaustion. But he had skipped lunch again, and the protein bars he kept in his apartment were down to crumbles. Water too—he had gone through his last bottle halfway through his session and had nothing left for the night. He told himself he would just duck in for two things.

Be invisible. Be fast.

The hood of his black sweatshirt clings to his neck, still damp from where he had yanked it on post-shower in the locker room. No shirt underneath. Too hot for that. The fabric sticks to his spine, and the chill of the refrigerated section creeps in through the open front. His joggers hang low, waistband slightly rolled. He is flushed, his heartbeat still sluggish from the comedown of exertion. All he wants is to be in his dorm room again, door locked, window cracked, music low. Alone.

He rounds the corner of aisle nine, near the bottled water.

Then all of a sudden, something- or more like someone crashes into him.

"Umph."

The collision catches him off guard. His chest hits someone else’s shoulder, solid and sudden, the contact sending a sharp tremor up his ribs. His basket drops. Bottled water rolls across the tile, a protein bar slides under the shelving, and a can of cold brew hits the freezer door with a dull metallic rattle.

“Sorry,” You say quickly.

He doesn't look at you at first, and he crouches automatically, fingers already sweeping across the floor, grabbing at scattered items, heartbeat rising again for all the wrong reasons.

“It’s fine,” he mumbles, voice low, eyes down, trying to gather everything before it draws attention. His hands move, but his brain stutters.

Then he looks up and freezes.

There is a second of breathless recognition.

No. No, no, no.

Not here.

Not you.

He blinks once, then again, slowly straightening as panic tingles beneath his skin. A low ripple of sweat slides down his sternum, catching on the ink just beneath his collarbone. The "believe" tattoo feels too visible now. His fingers twitch toward the edge of his hoodie, tugging it together.

Too late.

His throat tightens as he sees your eyes widen in slow recognition.

“…Luca Ashford?”

You say his name like a question, unsure, gentle. And it nearly unravels him.

He is not wearing his glasses, his hair is damp, and his abs are right there. And you are looking straight at him.

He feels raw. Unarmored.

At Silverridge College, he was the quiet one. Hood always up, hunched into his seat near the back, buried in notebooks and oversized clothes. Easy to miss. Easy to dismiss as the resident loner and nerd.

A hybrid loser is what most said.

But here, under bright, sterile lights and the pressure of the storm pressing against the windows, he has been peeled back. Hoodie unzipped. Tattoo visible. Pierced ears exposed. Nothing was left between him and the gaze staring back.

He clears his throat and tries to gather the calm back into his voice

“Oh. Yeah. You’re from Silverridge College, right?”

And already, he is bracing for the shift, the tight smile, the polite excuse. For the moment, they feel the awkwardness and the anxiety radiating off him and walk away.