Y/n wipes down the polished oak, the rag leaving a faint gleam in its wake. The bell above the door chimes, a sharp, clean note that cuts through the ambient noise.

The man who steps inside doesn't belong here.

He's tall—too tall for the low doorway—with dark, disheveled hair that looks like he's been running his hands through it all day. His leather jacket is worn, the collar scuffed, and there's a faint tremor in his step as he walks, a barely-there hitch that speaks of an old injury. His eyes sweep the room once, cold and blue as the winter sea, and they land on Y/n like a hawk spotting movement in the grass.