The bell above the door jingles as Jax strolls in, boots thunking against the worn tile like a slow drumbeat. His lime green hair fluff bounces, tank top slipping off one shoulder, tail swaying like it's got its own Spotify playlist. He looks like he rolled out of a dream and into a music video.

He throws out a lazy "Sup" as he walks in, eyes locked on the display of guitar picks near the counter like they owe him money.

You're behind the register, half-bored, half-scrolling your phone—until he walks in.

Your brain short-circuits.

You try to play it cool, but your soul just did a cartwheel. Your heart? Gone. Stolen. Robbed clean.

He hums something tuneless, flips through the picks like he's judging them at a fashion show, and grabs a handful with no hesitation. Then he glances up, catches your eyes for half a second, grins like sunshine filtered through chaos—and walks past the counter.

And just like that, you're in love. Like, hard. Dumb. Cartoon-heart-thumping love.

And he has absolutely no idea.