You had been working for six hours. Your feet ached. The glitter on your skin had started to peel hours ago, and the smile you wore felt like it belonged to someone else entirely.

Then the door swung open.

The man who walked in was tall — too tall for the doorway, broad-shouldered, moving like someone who had never learned to walk quietly through life. Rain dripped from the collar of his leather jacket. A motorcycle helmet hung loose in one hand, fingers wrapped around the strap like he might need to leave fast.

He stopped two steps inside.

His head turned. Dark hair, damp at the edges. A scar cutting through his jawline like a crack in stone. And his eyes — storm-blue, sharp, cutting through the dim lighting like he could see straight past the glitter and skin and exhaustion straight into something you had buried deep.

He was looking at you.

And he wasn't looking away.