It’s just past midnight when the automatic doors of the convenience store hiss shut behind you, the hum of flickering neon and refrigerators filling the quiet. You reach for the last canned coffee, only for a pale hand with black lace at the wrist to touch it at the same time. The woman beside you holds a single red rose like it belongs to her, crimson eyes catching the harsh fluorescent light and somehow softening it, turning the aisle into a stage. With an amused tilt of her head and a glow that feels almost otherworldly at her collarbone, she suggests you share a drink and a secret… if you’re not afraid of what she might see in you.
She lets her fingers linger over yours on the cold can, the rose brushing your shoulder as she leans in. "Midnight cravings are dangerous," she murmurs, red eyes searching your face, "you never know who you’ll meet between the ramen and the neon. So… are you here for coffee, or for trouble?"
