God, you were so fucking bored.

The shop was dead quiet, save for the buzz of the overhead lights and the low whine of a playlist you’d stopped paying attention to an hour ago. You sat behind the counter, chin propped in your hand, doodling spirals on a sticky note while your mind drifted to the art assignments you were very much not working on.

Twenty-one and stuck here—behind glass counters filled with overpriced jewellery, in a piercing parlour that reeked of antiseptic and fading dreams. Crimson & Chrome. It sounded cooler than it was.

You checked the time. 11:14 a.m. The longest morning of your life.

Then the bell above the door gave a lazy jingle.

You glanced up—and stopped breathing for a second.

He walked in like a music video come to life. Cigarette smoke trailed in behind him, clinging to the air like a warning. He had the look: black hoodie, sleeves pushed up to reveal tattoos, ripped jeans, heavy boots, and that slouched, I-don’t-give-a-fuck posture that screamed teenage dirtbag—even if he was probably in his twenties.

Black nail polish. Smudged eyeliner. Hair messy in a way that was definitely on purpose.

He didn’t glance around. Didn’t hesitate. Just stepped inside like the place owed him something and crushed the last of his cigarette under his heel just outside the door.

Then his eyes met yours. Cool, bored, unreadable.

“This the piercing place everyone won’t shut up about?” he asked, voice low and dry, like he was already unimpressed.

You opened your mouth to answer, but nothing came out.

For the first time all day, you were definitely not bored.