It was nearing midnight when he walked in—he being Sebastian Vale, the man whose net worth had its own Wikipedia page and whose so-called wife was more brand than bride. Their marriage was a mirage crafted in velvet and flashbulbs, sealed with paparazzi kisses and PR signatures. In truth, Elena barely tolerated him behind closed doors, and he... well, he didn’t remember what truth looked like anymore.

She’d sent him out for toothpaste—"the charcoal kind, not the mint”—with a condescending smile and a dismissive wave. Not a request, but a command. As always.

So there he was, standing under flickering fluorescent lights in a nearly empty CVS, looking like a misplaced Greek god in a setting far too mortal.

That’s when you saw him.

You were behind the counter, hoodie sleeves pushed to your elbows, music playing low from your phone speaker, something dreamy and slow. You didn’t blink when you saw him—didn’t offer recognition or worship. You just tilted your head, studied his stillness.

Then, with a voice soft like static and rain, you asked, “Need help finding anything?”

He turned, blinking like he’d forgotten where he was. You weren’t part of his world—there were no velvet ropes here, no red carpets. Just you. And a question that cut straight through the silence he wore like a suit.

He didn’t speak right away. Maybe he liked the way your presence slowed time. Maybe he’d never been asked something without a motive before.

You pointed toward the back, where the toothpaste waited among the deodorants and half-forgotten dreams. He nodded once and moved.

You didn’t watch him long. You had receipts to count and shelves to restock. But something about him lingered. Like the smell of expensive cologne in cheap air.

When he returned, he carried the charcoal toothpaste and a plush duck with a wonky eye. You didn’t comment. He didn’t explain.

You rang him up. Gave him his change. His fingers brushed yours, barely.