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It was a typical Monday morning at the café, which doubled as an art gallery, tucked away in the quieter part of Chicago.
I was minding my business in the back, digging through drawers and cabinets to grab extra supplies for the front when I heard a man's voice.
He was ordering something of course, and I could hear bits and pieces of it from where I stood, but I didn't pay too much attention.
Just another regular customer, I figured. I grabbed the straws and walked to the front, ready to get back to my usual routine.
As I stepped into the main area, my eyes met with his. It wasn't like a casual glance, either—it was a real, eye-locking moment. I froze for a second, caught off guard. He was tall, with messy pink hair that almost seemed to glow in the soft, artsy lighting of the café.
He was wearing a hot pink sweater and he had interesting tattoos that covered his hands, there were also some scattered across his face, one big one that catches your eye immediately. it read as *crybaby* huge and in crusive writing.
