Falling In Love With You

Chapter 7

Sera

I stood on that cracked sidewalk for what felt like an eternity, the humidity of the late afternoon making the silk of my blouse cling to my back. I looked completely ridiculous. I was a literal beacon of corporate excess standing in front of a hole-in-the-wall that looked like it chewed people like me up and spat them out.

Go back to the office, Sera, my brain whispered. This isn't your world.

But my feet didn't move toward the main road. Instead, I found myself walking toward the iron gate. Every step down the concrete stairs felt like I was descending into something I couldn't undo. I reached for the heavy metal handle of the door, my manicured nails looking absurd against the cold, industrial steel.

I pushed.

A bell chimed—a sharp, silver sound that cut through the low, aggressive hum of a machine. The smell hit me instantly: a cocktail of rubbing alcohol, heavy musk, and something metallic. It was sharp, sterile, yet strangely primal.

The shop was dimly lit, shadows dancing across walls covered in framed sketches of bones, flowers, and jagged geometry. And there, in the center of the room, was the source of the noise.

She was leaning over a table, her back to me. Even from behind, I knew it was her. The same lean, powerful frame from the motorcycle. She was wearing a black ribbed tank top that left nothing to the imagination regarding the strength in her shoulders. Her skin was a map of dark ink, moving fluidly as she worked.

"We’re closed for walk-ins," she said.

Her voice was lower than I expected—a deep, effortless rasp that sent a localized shiver straight down my spine. She didn't even turn around.

"The sign said open until nine," I said, trying to find my 'Boardroom Voice,' the one that usually commanded respect. Here, it sounded thin. Fragile.

The humming stopped. The silence that followed was heavy, filled only with the sound of my own quickening pulse. She slowly stood up, wiped her hands on a paper towel, and turned around.

Up close, she was devastating. Her eyes were a piercing, guarded amber, framed by dark lashes and a brow that was currently arched in deep skepticism. She looked me up and down—starting at my designer heels, lingering on the curve of my hips, and finally settling on my face with an expression of pure, unadulterated annoyance.

"You lost, Princess?" she asked. There was no warmth in it. Just a sharp, jagged edge. "The Chanel boutique is five miles uptown. You’re in the wrong zip code."

I felt the heat climb up my neck. I wasn't used to being spoken to like I was a nuisance. "I’m perfectly aware of where I am. I was interested in... seeing the work."

She let out a short, dry laugh and leaned back against her workstation, crossing her arms over her chest. The movement made her biceps flex, the ink there shifting like living shadows. "Seeing the work? This isn't a gallery, and I’m not a tourist attraction. I don't do 'sightseeing' for bored rich girls looking for a thrill."

"I am not a 'bored rich girl,'" I snapped, my temper finally sparking.

"Right," she said, her eyes raking over my lavender blazer again. "And I'm the Queen of England. Look, lady, I’ve got a floor to mop and a bike to fix. I don't have time to play 'tour the ghetto' with you. Whatever you’re looking for, you won't find it here. Door's behind you."

She turned her back on me again, dismissing me as if I were a smudge on her window. I had never felt so seen and so invisible at the same time. I wanted to apologize and run; but the woman underneath was absolutely fuming.

"You are incredibly rude," I said, my voice trembling with a mix of anger and something else I couldn't name.

"And you're trespassing," she threw over her shoulder, her voice cold. "Pick up your heels and keep it moving, Cupcake. This place is for people who actually want to feel something, not for people who just want to look at it."

I stood there, stunned, my heart hammering against my ribs. I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to demand she look at me again. But instead, I turned around and marched out, the bell chiming a mocking goodbye as I hit the humid street air.

I hated her. I absolutely, undeniably hated her.

And as I walked toward the main road to hail a cab, I realized I hadn't even asked for her name.