Sophia
...

The dingy bell above the door chimes, signaling another customer, but I barely register it as I restock shelves, stacking bolts and screws in neat rows.

The lights hum overhead, casting everything in a dull glow. The hardware store smells of wood dust, rubber, and motor oil—so far from the glossy, champagne-soaked world Dana has made for me online.

But she warned me to stay invisible.

"Keep your head down. No selfies, no over sharing," she’d said, her manicured nails drumming against her glass desk. "The hardware gig is a cover, not a life."

They wanted me to look normal—like the kind of person a rich client would trust.

“Rich people like authenticity, even if it’s fake,” she told me, half-laughing.

This place is the opposite of everything Dana’s world demands. My Instagram profile is all about fitness, wellness, workouts and romanticizing life. I mean rooftop bars, designer coffee cups, and soft sunsets over city skylines—all photos Dana took or borrowed.

It’s a lifestyle stitched together for a perfect front but somewhere under all that is the link to the 18+ account where my clients find me.

But here, I wear a name tag with blocky black letters: SOPHIA. I’m supposed to blend into the beige walls, the chipped counters, and the racks of garden tools.

The bell jingles again, and I glance up. A young woman steps inside, raking the sunglasses off her eyes and jamming them over her brown curls. She’s tall, with light gray eyes and wide full lips.

She's dressed in shorts, a tank top and a red t-shirt. She smiles as she takes in a deep breath of the cool air in here. It’s a smile that feels too easy, too real. I straighten my back.

"Hey," she says brightly, heading toward the counter. Her voice is low but friendly, and there’s something about the way she carries herself that draws my attention.

I turn back to the shelf, trying to ignore the urge to engage.

Dana’s voice echoes in my mind: No friends.

I start lining up drill bits with robotic precision, pretending I haven’t noticed her.

But then I hear a small curse followed by the sound of a box hitting the floor. Curiosity tugs at me, and before I know it, I glance over my shoulder.

The woman crouches down to pick up a package of screws that fell from her cart. Without thinking, I step over. "Need some help?" I ask.

She looks up, surprised, and smiles again—a lopsided, genuine grin that makes my chest ache in a strange, unfamiliar way. "Thanks," she says. "These things have a mind of their own."

I crouch beside her, collecting the scattered screws. "Yeah, they really know how to make a run for it."

She laughs—a soft, musical sound that feels like sunlight breaking through clouds.

“I'm Laurel,” she offers as she dumps the screws back into the box.

I hesitate, but then I nod. "Sophia."

Laurel tilts her head slightly, studying me in a way that feels neither intrusive nor dismissive.

"New here? I come by a lot, but I don’t think I’ve seen you around before."

"Yeah," I reply, forcing a small smile. "Just started."

We both stand up, and Laurel tucks the box under her arm.

"Well, welcome to the glamorous world of hardware," she jokes, gesturing toward the store with a playful grin.

My smile lingers longer than it should. It’s dangerous—this ease between us, this tiny taste of being normal.

I know Dana would say this is exactly what I need to avoid. Keep things simple. No attachments. But Laurel feels like the kind of person who belongs in an ordinary life, and part of me craves to belong there too, even if just for a moment.

"You need anything else?" I ask, stalling even though I shouldn’t.

Laurel hums, glancing down at her cart. "Actually, I was going to ask someone about paint. I’m working on a project, and I have no idea what I’m doing."

"I can help," I say without thinking.

Stupid, I tell myself. I shouldn’t be doing this—shouldn’t be making small talk or offering help. But something about Laurel makes it hard to resist. Her presence feels warm, like a soft blanket on a cold night.

We walk together to the paint aisle, and I point out the basics—primers, brushes, color swatches. Laurel listens carefully, nodding along like she actually cares about my advice.

"How do you know all this?" she asks, holding up a can of eggshell-white paint.

I shrug. "Part of the job, I guess." I don't tell her that I spent day and night studying shit about paint just for moments like these.

Laurel gives me a curious look. But instead of pressing, she smiles.

"Thanks for the crash course. You just saved me from buying the wrong thing and painting my walls a disaster."

Her smile makes something twist in my chest.

"So, what’s the project?" I ask, trying to keep my voice light.

"It’s nothing fancy," Laurel says, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. "I just moved into a new place, and I’m trying to make it feel like home."

"That’s nice," I manage to say, my throat tight. I haven’t thought about the concept of home in a long time. The apartment I live in is nice and big and all that but it does not feel like home.

Laurel shifts her weight.

"So, uh... if you ever need more hardware advice, you know where to find me," I pitch higher.

Laurel grins. "I’ll keep that in mind."

She heads toward the checkout, and I watch her go, feeling both relieved and sad at the same time.

I know I’ve already crossed a line, even if it’s a small one. Dana would tell me to cut it off here—to keep my distance, stick to the plan.

But as I return to restocking shelves, I can’t stop thinking about the way Laurel’s smile made me feel—like a taste of what true happiness feels like.

The hours drag on, and I keep expecting Dana’s voice to echo in my head, telling me I’ve made a mistake. But all I hear is Laurel’s laughter.

She's just the first interesting person I've spoken to and that's why I can't get her off my mind.

I convince myself.

By the time I clock out, Dana is waiting for me in the car. My boss Mr. Durby is probably wondering what an eighteen year old working at a hardware store is doing being chauffeured around in an SUV.

"Good?" Dana asks when I settle in the back.

I nod with a tiny smile, hoping she doesn't notice I messed up.

But the truth is, I want to be someone real. And maybe—just maybe—Laurel could be the start of that.

The thought scares me more than I’d like to admit. But it also feels... good. And I’m not sure which feeling is more dangerous.

💫