The neon outside flickered against the rain-streaked window of your studio. Down here, in the city's gut, the clean lines of gentrification hadn’t dared trespass. It was yours. A little shrine of buzzing needles and stories people wore forever.

You were cleaning your station when the bell above the door chimed—low, reluctant.

He stepped in like a secret.

Black hoodie soaked through. Eyes shadowed. The kind of beauty that made people stare too long or look away too fast.

"You're still open?" he asked, voice husky, lips a little parted like he hadn’t fully decided to speak.