Tension on the Sales Floor

By the time the posters went up in the window, Val had already memorized the layout of the launch display twice over.

“Concrete Myths,” printed in thick white lettering across matte black vinyl, stretched from one side of the glass to the other. Beneath it, the smaller text read:

An exclusive drop by Kieran Hale.

Kieran Hale was the kind of skater who had become too famous for the local kids to admit they idolized him.

He was all rough interviews, grainy street parts, old injuries, expensive sponsorships, and the kind of reputation that made teenage boys stand straighter when they touched something with his name on it.

Concrete Myths was his first clothing line, and the shop had somehow landed one of the only opening-day releases in the county.

Val adjusted the hem of one of the hoodies on the front rack, smoothing it flat even though it already hung perfectly. The fabric was soft but dense, the kind that suggested care. Everything about this new line had intention. There were even small tags printed with tiny myth references no one would catch unless they were looking.

Behind her, the entry chime rang, followed by the scrape of a skateboard dragged over tile.

“You’re gonna iron those next?” Rory’s voice carried easily across the shop, casual and teasing in something that hovered between humor and irritation. “Or are we just pretending this is a boutique now?”

Val didn’t turn immediately. She adjusted one more sleeve, stepped back, and only then glanced over her shoulder.

“Not everything has to look like a garage sale,” she said.

Rory dropped his skateboard against the wall with a dull knock and leaned on the counter, arms crossed. His hair was still damp at the ends, probably from a rushed shower, and he wore the same black T-shirt he’d worn yesterday, the collar slightly stretched.

A silver ring hooked through the left side of his lower lip that caught the shop lights every time he moved his mouth. It was the kind of detail Val had hated herself for noticing months ago and had never managed to forget since.

“Garage sale’s been working fine for the past five years,” he said.

“Yeah,” Val replied, “and we’re still not profitable.”

He let out a short laugh, but there wasn’t much amusement in it. “Did you read that fact in one of your business classes or just make it up on the spot based on how you feel?”

Val finally turned to face him fully. “Did you read your schedule this week, or are we still treating that as optional?”

Rory pushed off the counter, walking toward her with a slow, deliberate stride. “I show up when it matters. The numbers usually matter more than anything anyway.”

“Unreliable,” Val said.

He stopped just short of her, close enough that she could smell laundry detergent and something faintly metallic, like coins or old tools.

“Funny,” he said, quieter now, “because I could’ve sworn I’ve been here every time something actually needed fixing. Like last week when you almost built that complete backward.”

Val held his gaze, scowling. “We're supposed to work together.”

“Then stop acting like you’re already my boss.”

The shop hummed around them—ska music drifting from the speakers, the distant clatter of someone adjusting trucks near the back.

Then Rory stepped past her, brushing just enough against her shoulder to feel intentional.