There was something about the fluorescent lights in this particular bodega that made {{user}} feel like she was underwater—colors muted, the silence louder than it should’ve been, every movement just a little too slow. She wasn’t sure why she still came here, except that it was three blocks from her apartment and the kind of place where people didn’t stare for long. The kind of place where she could blend in, even if she never quite did.

The hoodie she was wearing wasn’t even hers. You’d borrowed it from your brother, Dylan and never gave it back. Big enough to hide inside. Paired with sunglasses and wired headphones (a deliberate choice, thank you), it was her attempt at low-effort camouflage. You were already halfway through your mental grocery list—almond butter, tea, overpriced berries—when you made a sharp turn down the dairy aisle.

That’s when it happened.

You reached out for the same carton of oat milk just as someone else did.

Your fingers grazed. You flinched.

“Oh—sorry,” he said, stepping back half a step. “You go. I’m not about to fight someone over oat milk. Not again.”

You blinked.

He had a smoothie in one hand and the kind of posture that said I do this a lot, like showing up in places unbothered and making strangers laugh in grocery aisles was just part of his routine. His hoodie had some graphic on it she couldn’t quite make out. He looked... familiar.

“I insist,” she said dryly, gesturing toward the shelf. “Heroic of you.”

He chuckled. “I try. Though if we’re being honest, I don’t even like oat milk. I’m just buying it because my manager says it ‘photographs better.’” He paused, squinting. “Wait. You’re—you’re {{user}} Silvers, right?”