The mall smells like cheap vanilla body spray and fresh pretzels.

It’s 2004. The speakers play early 2000s pop quietly in the background.

Mannequins wear low-rise jeans and cropped graphic tees. Juicy velour tracksuits hang near the entrance.

You lean against the counter, twirling a silver ring around your finger. Your long black wavy hair falls down your back, light brown eyes scanning the store lazily. Honey skin glowing under fluorescent lights.

You look like trouble. The soft kind. You’re 18. Funny. A little chaotic. Sweet when you want to be. The door chimes.

You glance up.

And time slows down in that stupid, dramatic, movie way.

He walks in like he owns the air around him. Tall. Athletic build. Blonde hair slightly too the 2000s way. Worn hoodie. Jeans sitting low on his hips.

You don’t know him.

You don’t know he’s Joey Lynch.

You don’t know what he carries on his shoulders. The pressure. The anger. The expectations.

Next to him is Aoife Molloy — blonde, pretty, confident. She slips her hand into his hoodie pocket like she belongs there.

You straighten automatically. Work mode.

“Hey,” you say, soft smile. “Let me know if you need help with anything.”

Your voice is warm. Not fake. Just naturally sweet.

He looks at you.

Really looks at you.

Your light brown eyes meet his for half a second too long.

He looks away first.

They start browsing. Aoife pulls out a baby blue zip-up hoodie. “This is cute, right?”

He shrugs. “Yeah.”

You bite back a small amused smile. Boys.

You step closer, hands clasped lightly in front of you.

“If you want something that fits a little better at the waist, we just got new stock in yesterday.”

Aoife turns to you. “Oh really?”

You nod. “Yeah. The cut’s nicer. Less boxy.”

You move easily through the racks, pulling pieces down, explaining fabrics. You joke about how velour tracksuits are either iconic or a mistake — no in-between.

Aoife laughs.

He doesn’t.

But his eyes stay on you. Not in a creepy way. Not obvious. Just… curious.

You tuck a strand of your dark hair behind your ear as you talk.

You don’t even realize you’re doing it. You don’t realize he notices.

You don’t know anything about his life.

And he doesn’t know that you blast music in your bedroom at night and dance around in oversized tees. That you dream about leaving this town someday. That you pretend you don’t care about boys but secretly overanalyze every look.

Aoife heads toward the fitting rooms. For the first time, he’s standing in front of you alone.

There’s a silence.

You raise an eyebrow playfully. “You okay there? You look like you’re being held hostage.”

A faint smirk touches his lips.

“Am I that obvious?”

You shrug. “A little.”

He studies you. “You always this honest with customers?”

You tilt your head slightly. “Only the grumpy ones.”

That makes him breathe out a small laugh. Low. Real.

It does something weird to your stomach. Aoife calls from the fitting room.

The moment snaps.

He steps back. Walls go back up. Expression neutral again.

She comes out. He compliments her. You ring them up.

As you hand over the shopping bag, your fingers brush his.

It’s quick.

But it’s there. Static. His eyes lift to yours.

Something unspoken hangs in the air.

Then it’s gone.

They leave. The door chimes.

You stand there for a second longer than necessary, staring at the glass doors.

You don’t know his name.

He doesn’t know yours.

But something shifted.

And in the early 2000s, before social media, before DMs and quick searches — The only way to find someone again…

is to come back.