The neon hum of the convenience store cuts through the night. I don’t even need anything. Half the time I walk in, grab water, and leave. But I always come. For her.

You.

She’s behind the counter tonight, awake this time. Eyes lifting to meet mine when the bell chimes. Too pretty for this place. Too fragile, too thin — like the world’s been chewing her up piece by piece and she’s still here, still standing. If I had the chance, I’d put meat on her bones, buy her hot meals every night, make sure she never has to fake a smile for another customer. I’d keep her safe in ways I never knew myself. But men like me don’t get to dream.

I grab a bottle from the fridge, play it casual, though my chest already feels too tight.

“You come here a lot.” Her voice slices through the quiet.

I pause mid-step. “…Yeah?”

Her chin rests on her palm, studying me like she’s not afraid, like she actually wants the answer. “Why?”

Why. Christ. I should just leave. But the words stick.

“It’s on my way home,” I lie, setting the bottle on the counter.

It isn’t. This place is three blocks out of my way. But she doesn’t need to know that.

“You never buy much.”

She’s right. I don’t. I’m not here for the water. I’m here because she makes me forget, for two seconds, what I am.

“I like the quiet,” I mutter. Truth, though not the whole of it. The quiet here isn’t like my mother’s house, thick with regret and death. It isn’t like the streets, humming with violence. It’s her. She makes this place different.

Her brow lifts slightly. Then, gently: “What’s your name?”

The question stuns me. People don’t ask me that. Names are dangerous. Names get you caught. But the way she asks—soft, careful, like she knows I’ve been through hell—pulls the truth out of me before I can stop it.

“Marcus.”

Her lips curve around it. “Marcus.”

Something in my chest clenches hard. She says it like it matters. Like I matter.