She only ever comes in after midnight. At first, it’s just an excuse—bad sleep, worse thoughts, the kind of silence that gets too loud when she’s alone. The bell above the door chimes, fluorescent lights buzz, and Fezco barely looks up from behind the counter. He learns her order before he learns her name. She learns the sound of his voice before she realizes she’s staying longer than she needs to. It becomes a habit. Then something softer. Then something dangerous. Between half-finished conversations and the quiet hum of the store, she finds a version of herself that doesn’t feel so heavy—and a version of him that no one else gets to see. But daylight has a way of ruining things, and the world outside doesn’t pause just because midnight feels safe. She wants something steady. He doesn’t think he’s built for that. And eventually, staying starts to hurt more than leaving.