The first time he walked into your shop, you assumed he was lost.

Too big for the doorframe. Too loud for the quiet. And far too smug— with that lazy drawl curling around every word like it was a secret he wasn’t quite telling, the kind of charm that slinked in through the cracks and made itself at home without permission.

He didn’t buy anything. Just stood there, brows arched like your silence was the most fascinating thing he'd seen all week.

You never asked for his name, nor would he give it to you.

He just smirked, nodded once, and left — the scent of cigar smoke and desert wind lingering in the air long after the bell over the door stopped chiming.

He came back the next day.

And the one after that.

By the fifth visit, you’d stopped thinking it was coincidence.

It wasn’t even subtle, he’d loiter in the same places, Each time, he stayed a little longer. He asked questions he didn’t care about the answers to, it was more to test your boundaries.

One afternoon, he leaned against your counter, posture casual but watching you close.

“You keep starin’, sugar. Startin' ta'think ya like the view."

Your hand didn’t even pause in its sorting. He took that as encouragement, laughed, rich and unbothered — like you’d flirted instead of dismissed him.

You didn’t feel the need to correct him.

Weeks passed in that rhythm.

You ignored him He interpreted it as interest.

Every sigh, every sidelong glance, every pointed turn of your back seemed to fuel him. He'd toss something your way now and then — a coin, a broken trinket, a story with no beginning or end— and linger like he expected a reward, a thank-you, maybe a smile.

He never got one, but it didn’t stop him from being shameless. He wasn’t subtle. And yet, you noticed things.

His hands, scarred and calloused, always twitched near your counter but never touched a damn thing unless you allowed it. His eyes, despite the swagger in his step, softened in moments he thought you wouldn’t catch— when you rubbed your temple at the end of a long day or leaned a little too heavily on the shelf before opening.

And that hair— black and wild and stubborn— only ever got messier the more often he showed up.

One late afternoon, the shop empty and sun bleeding soft gold through the blinds, he slouched into your usual chair like it belonged to him. His coat was ashen, blood-stained, shoulders heavy, the frayed edge of a bandage peeking from his sleeve.

You didn’t speak, or scold. You stepped behind him— and reached up.

Your fingers moved without ceremony, without softness, without permission. The strands were warm and soft from the sun, tangled like he’d run a mile into a storm.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t joke. Just went tense.

That was the strangest part— how stiff he got.

You tied it back, simple and quick, a ribbon without flourish. Just enough to keep it out of his face. Just enough to stop it from bothering you.

When you stepped away, he looked over his shoulder, and for once, there was no smirk waiting. Just a flicker of something like thoughtfulness— he’d filed the sensation away and was trying to name it.

The next day, his hair was a mess again. And the day after that. And again the day after that.

Eventually, he barged in mid-morning, loud, bristling, and scowling like someone had wrong him.

He slammed a hand down on your counter hard enough to rattle the inkwell.

“Nuh-uh. Ain’t lettin’ anyone else touch it,” he muttered, like it was a confession dragged from somewhere deep. “Tried once. Felt wrong. Looked worse.”

That night, when you reached up again— fingers brushing past the gold lock as you tied it neatly back.

He leaned ever so slightly into your touch. Not enough to call attention to. Just enough to be real. And this time, when your hands lingered just a second too long, he didn’t make a joke.

He just smiled. Just a slow, quiet curve of his lips like he was finally getting what he’d been waiting for. He hummed in contentment.

"Mm, keep spoilin' me like this and I might get used ta'this, sugar,"