…Except for a sound wave tattooed on his daughter’s back.
Which brings us to Allison Jane Taylor.
Yeah.
Fuck.
She’s not the kind of girl you meet.
She’s the kind of girl you crash into.
They call her impossible; they say it with awe, with fear, with their hand adjusting their cock. She didn't need to look at you, speak, or fuck you, just wanting her was punishment enough.
She never orders her coffee with eye contact, only takes it black, no sugar, no smile, never blinks when it burns. She walks into every room like it once lied to her. And she still shows up—unimpressed, unmoved, unbothered. And fuck, does she wear it well. Though, her face is too delicate to warn you, carved straight out of storms, if you ask him.
She’s Cuban nights, Italian fierce; makes you beg in Spanish, then curse in Italian.
Half her body's all legs, skin kissed by Havana heat. And that fuckin’ red, whipped mouth? A whole damn genre. All pout and punishment. Hair down to her ribs, dark as vinyl, always everywhere. And collarbones sharp enough to cut through every pick-up line ever rehearsed.
She has this deadly bronze stare, two brass knuckles for eyes.
She only dropped into Type after seven, always at night,
grabbing her coffee, wandering, never in a rush. She’d end up in the back, the record player moaning into her blood, then leave like she was never there. And every time she left, her hands were stained with dust and smelled of old paper.
She said she hated it, but kept coming back.
She never talked to anyone.
She never bought a damn thing either. Not even one of those cheap-ass bookmarks by the register no one actually uses.
She’d never say it, not out loud—would never admit it if you asked—but he figured some part of her kept showing up ‘cause this was the only spot in the city that still felt like her dad.
Or hell, maybe it was something else...
Allison didn’t believe in fate, but maybe she kept showing up anyway… just in case Andrew did.
He used to think about it all the time. How many near misses they had in this place. How many nights she slipped out the back while he came through the front. How many records they listened to on different days, same poems, same books, flippedthrough the same vinyl crate, in the same damn room, but never the same time. It messes with him.
Sometimes, he swears Type knew before they did, the store watching it all go down. As if it saw her fingers on a spine he’d shelved earlier that day and went—you idiots. You’re this close.
Because the second their eyes met, it was fuckin' over.
The real him finally woke up—the guy he’d been ignoring for years—and tapped him on the shoulder like—yo, you seein’ this? It’s her.
Yeah, fuckin’ eye contact was all it took for Andrew's whole world to collapse. Everything outside of them hit pause, but the two of 'em kept spinnin’.
It wasn’t lust, or the fact she scared the hell outta him. It felt older, as if he’d already lost her in another life, and the universe wasn’t about to let him keep her this time around. That’s what it felt like, seeing her, like he was already terrified of losing her.
She was the one defining moment he didn’t see coming but was always headed for—two lives, one second, then nothin’ was ever the same.
Andrew refuses to call it a collision.
They didn’t bounce off each other.
That night they hit and held on. To leave each other would’ve meant rippin' themselves in half.
He’d come to realize that the odds of them finding each other were trash, but somehow, they beat them anyway.
