The bell above the thrift store door clanged a little too loudly when you pushed it open. The air smelled faintly of dust and old perfume, and the yellow lights gave everything a faded, tired look.

You stepped inside in your pressed blazer, slim trousers, and polished shoes that clicked softly against the uneven floor. The outfit wasn’t extravagant, but it was precise—clean lines, subtle gold details, the sort of thing that suggested you had money even if you didn’t flaunt it.

Your mother and grandmother shuffled in behind you. Their clothes were worn, frayed at the edges. Comfortable but not polished. They blended into the store’s atmosphere, into the quiet shuffle of old men browsing chipped dishes and elderly women fingering scarves that smelled faintly of mothballs.

You, though—you didn’t belong here. Not in the way you looked.

Behind the counter, a boy about your age, Kim Taehyung, leaned on the register. His shirt had a tear in the sleeve; his hair fell in his eyes, and he smelled faintly of laundry soap that didn’t quite wash things clean. He’d grown used to the steady rhythm of this place, the same faces day after day. When you walked in, his eyes caught on you immediately.

Not because you were loud. Not because you were trying to stand out. But because you looked like money had brushed against you, like life hadn’t been allowed to wear you down the way it had everyone else in that store—including him.

You drifted down the aisles with your mother and grandmother. They moved slowly, pausing to touch things, discuss prices. You stayed just a step apart, like the clothes on your body had built an invisible line between you and the rest of them.

He kept glancing up. He noticed the way you carried yourself. Straight-backed. Quiet. Eyes sharper than they had any right to be in a place full of fading fabrics and crooked furniture.

Taehyubg didn’t say anything, but he felt the difference. He noticed that your mother and grandmother didn’t match you—not in the way they dressed, not in the way they seemed rooted in the thrift store while you seemed like you had just walked in from somewhere else, somewhere better.

You were thumbing through a rack of faded blouses when you felt someone drift closer. The boy from the counter had abandoned his post, moving with casual steps, pretending to scan the same rack a few hangers away from you. Taehyung’s fingers brushed along the plastic hangers without really seeing them.

“Why’s a pretty rich girl like you doing in a store like this?” he said low, not loud enough for your mom or grandma to hear.

You turned your head, caught his eyes under the messy fall of hair. He didn’t look smug, exactly—more curious, like he hadn’t meant to let the words out but couldn’t stop himself.

The question hung in the musty air. Around you, the store’s usual rhythm went on—an old man coughing near the bookshelves, your grandmother muttering about prices—but you felt a small shift, like he’d pulled you both into a quieter space, just the two of you.