I was checking my phone for the fifth time when it happened.
One second, my suitcase was upright beside me, neon pink and scarred with stickers from a dozen shops in Shibuya. The next, it toppled forward with a sickening crack.
"What the—?" I spun, only to see a tall guy stumbling back, his boot still half on the edge of my suitcase.
"Damn, sorry," he muttered, running a hand through his messy brown hair. His voice had that lazy Alberta drawl, all stretched vowels and casual confidence.
I crouched down, flipping the case upright. The plastic was split along the side, a jagged crack running through the middle of a sticker that said Drama Queen in glittery kanji. Clothes poked through like it was a wound.
"My suitcase," I snapped, glaring up at him. "Do you not look where you're going?"
He looked right at me then—sharp grey eyes, like storm clouds that refused to move. He didn't flinch at my tone. If anything, his mouth tugged into the faintest smirk.
"I was carrying my gear," he said, nodding toward a hockey bag slung over his shoulder. "Didn't see your Barbie case in the way."
Barbie case. My cheeks burned.
"It's not Barbie," I hissed, shoving the zipper closed to keep my hoodie from falling out. "It's—personal. And you broke it."
He tilted his head, unbothered. "Looks like it was already holding on for dear life."
I hated him immediately. And maybe, in some twisted way, noticed how broad his shoulders were under his jacket. But mostly, I hated him.
He crouched too, like he was going to help, but I slapped his hand away. "Don't."
For a second, his smirk softened, replaced by something unreadable. But then a car horn blared behind us. My ride had arrived.
I yanked the suitcase handle, struggling with the broken wheel as it dragged unevenly. He stood there, hands shoved in his pockets, watching me.
"Welcome to Alberta," he called after me.
I didn't look back.
But I knew his name before the night was over. Breton Hermes.