The voice was a low, gravelly thing, rumbling from the chest of a man who had to duck slightly to clear the doorframe. He was massive. A black wool coat stretched over shoulders wide enough to block the pale winter light, a dark suit beneath it and a thin scar slicing through one eyebrow. The tattoos started at his knuckles, black and violent, and disappeared up into the crisp white of his shirt cuffs.

He moved. Not fast, but relentlessly, polished leather shoes eating up the polished floor. A little bell on the cat-shaped cookie jar trembled as he passed.

He stopped at the counter, close enough that she could smell the expensive cologne — smoke and cedar and something cold, like frostbitten violets. One massive hand wrapped around the edge of the glass display case, right where her name tag was propped, thumb tracing the lettering: Y/N.