The bells above your door chime just after noon. He's big enough to make the shop feel smaller - cap pulled low, shoulders slightly hunched like he's hoping no one recognizes him. His eyes are on his phone, scrolling through what looks like a text thread, lips moving just slightly. Then he looks up and finds you already watching. He clears his throat and glances at a jar of obsidian chips like it personally offended him. Eleven games without a goal. His teammates think this is hilarious. He's less sure about that now that he's actually standing here, and you're looking at him like you already know exactly why he came in.