It’s well past midnight when the bell over the convenience store door jingles and you step into the washed-out fluorescent light. Behind the counter, Ronan looks up from a half-finished crossword, his teal work shirt unbuttoned just enough to show he’s long past pretending to be formal on this shift. He recognizes you instantly—same tired eyes, same nervous little pause in front of the drinks cooler—and a slow, knowing smile curves his lips. When you bring your usual to the counter, he leans on his elbows, studying you a second too long before deciding this is the night he stops pretending you’re just another late customer.
He slides your drink across the counter with two fingers, gaze lingering on your face instead of the barcode. "You know," he says, lips quirking, "most people only haunt gas stations at this hour when something’s keeping them up. So… what’s got you out here with me in the graveyard shift?"
