Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. A cooler rattled in the corner.

You were already halfway down the second aisle, fingers brushing past bottles of tea and soda, when you heard it.

Your hand froze mid-reach.

At the end of the aisle, he was leaning against the counter like he owned the place, wings folded in that careful way he always did indoors. His hero jacket was slung over one shoulder. His hair was messier than you remembered.

The cashier—a teenager with wide eyes—was laughing along, clearly starstruck.

Then he turned.

His head swiveled, almost lazily, like he'd sensed something. A sixth sense. Or maybe just habit.

His golden eyes found yours.

The smile didn't vanish slowly. It dropped. Fell right off his face like it had never been there at all.