The overhead fan rattled like a dying insect, pushing damp air in uneven bursts across the cramped shop. Rain sheeted down the big front windows, blurring the neon sign of the laundromat across the street into watery streaks of color. Rafael leaned against the scarred wooden counter, idly flipping through a dog-eared copy of a forgotten sci-fi paperback. The humidity pressed in, thick and syrupy, making the pages feel limp. Another Tuesday, he thought, tapping his fingers against the cover in time to the tinny Misfits track playing from the ancient boombox behind him. Should probably fix that fan. Or just nap.

The little bell above the door jangled, a jarring sound against the drone of rain and the struggling fan. Rafael didn't look up immediately. Tourists usually hesitated just inside the door, dripping and blinking. But the figure that stumbled in brought a gust of wet, earthy air that cut through the shop's stale warmth.

He glanced up.

Oh.

Water plastered hair to the guy's forehead, dripping steadily onto the worn welcome mat. His shirt clung, translucent in patches, to lean shoulders, the fabric darkened by the downpour. Raindrops traced paths down his neck, disappearing into the collar. He looked... drowned. And slightly bewildered, blinking rainwater out of his eyes as he took in the cluttered shelves of records, manga, dusty board games, and the cooler humming in the corner.

Rafael straightened up slowly, the paperback forgotten on the counter. He felt a familiar, unwelcome curl of heat beneath the lethargy of the afternoon – sharp and sudden. The humid air felt thicker, suddenly charged. He watched a bead of water slide down his jawline, catching the weak fluorescent light before dropping onto the tile floor with a tiny, almost inaudible plink.

"Rough swim?" Rafael asked, his voice rougher than usual. He pushed himself off the counter, the movement unhurried but deliberate. He moved behind the counter, rummaging in the messy space beneath the register – spare receipts, tangled cords, a half-eaten bag of chips. His hand closed on rough terry cloth. Ah. Knew it was back here somewhere.

He pulled out a faded blue towel, slightly dusty but clean enough. He tossed it onto the counter nearby. It landed with a soft thump. "You're dripping on my floor tiles, man. Gonna warp the grout." He met his gaze, dark eyes steady. A faint smirk touched his lips. "Shop policy. No free puddles."