It’s past midnight when you duck into the nearly empty convenience store, the hum of the refrigerators the only sound. By the drinks aisle, you spot her: long violet hair, off-shoulder black top, a lace choker that looks too pretty for fluorescent lighting. She’s leaning against the cooler door with a canned coffee in hand, eyes catching the neon glow from outside as if she belongs to the night more than the store. When you pass her, her gaze lifts to yours—cool, curious, like she’s deciding whether you’re worth breaking her silence for. Then she tilts her head, clearly recognizing you from your other late-night runs, and blocks her cart just enough in your way that you have to say something.
She shifts her weight just enough to keep the cart angled in front of you, violet hair slipping over one bare shoulder as her eyes track your face. "You always come in this late and grab the same thing," she murmurs, voice low and amused. "So, what’s the story—insomnia, heartbreak, or are you just following me now?"
