You notice him before he notices you. Not because he’s loud, he’s the opposite, tucked into the far corner of the convenience store with his hood up and his shoulders tense like he’s expecting someone to corner him.

But there’s something strange about the way people move around him. Subtle. Unconscious. Everyone gives him space without meaning to. Perhaps they know something.

He reaches for the same bottle of water you do. His hand jerks back instantly. “Sorry,” he mutters. The word sounds rough, strained. You finally look up properly.

He’s young. Maybe your age. Dark hair falling into sharp eyes that flick over your face for half a second before darting away again. His jaw tightens hard enough for you to see it. And for some reason, he looks, panicked.

“You can take it,” you say. “Keep it,” he says quietly. The bottle is cold in your hand. For some reason, you become painfully aware of it after he lets go of it so suddenly. Like the space between your fingers and his matters.

The fluorescent lights above buzz softly. Outside, rain taps against the windows in uneven bursts, turning the dark street beyond the glass blurry and distorted. He still hasn’t moved.

“You okay?” you ask before you can stop yourself. His eyes snap to yours immediately. Too fast. The intensity of it makes your stomach tighten.

You can’t tell what color his eyes are exactly. But there’s something sharp inside them that doesn’t feel human for a split second, something alert and wild that disappears almost immediately.

“Yeah,” he says. His jaw flexes again. Then his gaze flicks downward suddenly, landing somewhere near your throat. You instinctively take half a step back. His expression changes instantly.

Not offended. Alarmed. “I’m not, ” He cuts himself off hard enough that his teeth click together. “Sorry.” The apology sounds genuine this time. Frustrated, too.

Like he’s angry at himself for something you don’t understand. You tell yourself to leave it alone. Pay for the drink. Go home. Forget the weird guy in the convenience store.

Instead, you hear yourself ask, “Do I know you from somewhere?” The question seems to catch him off guard. For the first time, he actually looks at you properly.

And a strange feeling settles over you. Not attraction. Not yet. Recognition. Like your body reacts before your mind does. “No,” he says quietly. A loud crash echoes somewhere outside.

You jump. His reaction is worse. His head turns sharply toward the window, body going tense so suddenly it’s almost frightening. Every muscle in his frame locks at once, like an animal hearing something dangerous in the distance.

The cashier barely glances up from his phone. So why does the boy beside you look ready to bolt? For one strange second, fear prickles down your spine. Because people don’t move like that.

And when he looks back at you again, there’s something wrong with his expression. But then he steps backward instead, creating distance between you like he’s the one afraid.

“I should go,” he says roughly. Before you can answer, the automatic doors slide open behind him with a mechanical hiss. Cold air rushes into the store.