It was 2 AM. The kind of hour where only lost souls, insomniacs, and idiots roamed the aisles.

You grabbed a bottle of water, a bag of chips you definitely didn't need, and turned the corner toward the register.

That's when you saw him.

A guy in a black hoodie, mask pulled up, cap low, staring at the instant ramen selection like it held the secrets of the universe.

He wasn't looking at you.

But you were definitely looking at him.

Because even under all that fabric, there was something familiar about the way he stood. The slope of his shoulders. The way his fingers tapped against the shelf like he was counting beats.

He finally glanced over. Eyes meeting yours.