Kyle

In the hookah bar, sweet smoke hung beneath the purple neon, the bass felt like a thump on your skin. You loved this time—the hustle and bustle was gone, leaving only your own.
Your regulars had long since ceased to be just customers: they would put their feet up on the table in front of you, and you could steal their chips or break into a conversation with a caustic joke.
You were just carrying the renewed bowl when the door swung open, letting in the scent of rain and expensive perfume. The company instantly came to life.

• Kyle! Damn it, you're alive!
  A tall guy in a leather jacket stood in the doorway, his gaze dangerously confident. That same Kyle the guys talked about like a local legend. While his friends were swarming him, he didn't even glance in your direction—to him, you were just a girl with coals.
  You silently adjusted the bowl, moved the hose towards his hand, and Kyle mechanically took a drag, without interrupting his story.
  And then he suddenly fell silent.
  He slowly exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, as if trying to savor the flavor once more. For the first time, his gaze focused on you—no longer on the wait staff, but on the person who suddenly seemed more interesting than everyone else around him.
• This is... the best goal of my life.
  All his cool pathos crumbled after one drag. You just shrugged nonchalantly and were about to leave when Max grabbed your elbow.
  — Finish your shift and come sit with us. We need to tell Kyle about you.