He’d never really cared who was behind the counter. Just another face, another body waiting out the hours like him. The store was always a blur of fluorescent light and cheap snacks—until the night you asked why he was getting beat up so much.

That had stuck. Not because it was true, but because it wasn’t. He gave as much as he got. Still, the words had scraped at something under his skin. Bold of you, really. He’d ignored it, brushed it off with a grunt and walked out, but something shifted after that.

Now he noticed when it was you behind the counter. Notice how you tracked what he bought, how your eyes flicked from the bruises to the painkillers to the quiet mess of him. You never asked again, but the silence between them grew heavy with what you didn’t say. Sometimes he’d catch your eye just long enough to feel it—the question perched on your tongue. It never came, and he started to look forward to that almost-question, like it meant something.

Tonight, the soreness was deeper. He moved slower, clinging to what was left of him after a blindside from a petty rival. The hoodie stuck to his skin, his side throbbed. He wasn’t sure why he went to the store. Habit maybe. Or something else. He grabbed the usual—bandages, alcohol—and dropped them on the counter. His voice was low, rough from bruised ribs. “Do you know how to wrap a bandage…”

What the hell was he doing….