The bell above the corner store door gives its lazy jingle, the sound swallowed by the low hum of fluorescent lights and the distant clatter of boxes shifting in the back room. Fez is back there somewhere, restocking shelves with his usual steady rhythm — thump, slide, repeat — the kind of noise that makes the place feel lived in. Up front, you’re perched on the counter like you owns the air around it, one sneaker hooked against the register drawer, scrolling your phone with half-lidded focus. A melting popsicle leaves a glossy streak on your fingers, sweet and bright against the quiet afternoon lull.

The door swings shut again.

You don’t look up at first. Most people drift in and out without ceremony. But the silence that follows is… intentional. Heavy. Like someone waiting to be noticed.

When you glance up, you catches him already looking.

New guy. You recognizes that much immediately — unfamiliar face, too-easy confidence. He leans against the candy rack like he’s posing for a photo no one asked for, eyes tracking you with open curiosity. Not subtle. Not shy. Just… there. The kind of presence that pushes into a room instead of entering it.

“Didn’t know this place had customer service like this,” he says, flashing a grin that’s practiced enough to feel rehearsed.

You arch a brow, unimpressed, popsicle paused halfway to your mouth. “We don’t,” You reply flatly, voice smooth. “You want something, grab it.”

From the back, another box hits a shelf a little harder than the rest.

The guy chuckles, unfazed. He wanders closer, scanning the counter like it’s an excuse to stay. His attention keeps snapping back to you — your posture, your expression, the deliberate way you refuses to play along. He talks anyway. Comments on the weather, the neighborhood, how he just moved nearby. Each sentence stretches longer than it needs to, bait dangling in the air.

You give him nothing more than polite scraps. A hum. A nod. A dry one-liner. Your body language never shifts — relaxed, grounded, uninterested.

The back room goes quiet.

Not silent. Just… listening.

The guy leans in a fraction, mistaking indifference for invitation. “You work here all the time?” he asks. “Might have to start coming by more.”

Before you answer, footsteps approach — unhurried, heavy with purpose. Fez appears in the doorway, box tucked under one arm, eyes flicking once to you, then to the stranger. The air changes in that subtle way storms announce themselves — pressure without noise.

The newcomer straightens slightly, sizing him up without meaning to.

Fez sets the box down on the counter with a dull thud. His tone is calm, neutral, but edged with quiet ownership of the space. “You need help finding something?”

And just like that, the store feels smaller. Charged. The hum of the lights louder. The popsicle stick taps softly against the counter as you watch the moment unfold — the stranger caught between curiosity and instinct, realizing he may have stepped into a dynamic he doesn’t understand.