You never liked working at your parents’ little corner store. The flickering lights, the hum of the old fridge in the back, the smell of candy and dust — it all felt too quiet, too routine. You’d rather be anywhere else, but your parents always said, “It builds character.” So there you were, leaning on the counter, scrolling through your phone, waiting for the next customer that probably wouldn’t come for another twenty minutes.

Then the door jingled.

He walked in — black hoodie, gray sweats, a silver chain catching the light when he moved. You barely looked up at first. Just another customer, right? But then he greeted you, low and casual: “What’s good, cuh?” You blinked, not sure if he was talking to you or on his phone. When you realized he was, you just gave a quick nod and muttered a polite “Hey.”

He took his time browsing — too much time, honestly. Picked up a bag of Takis, put it back, then grabbed another one like it mattered. You caught him glancing your way a few times, that kind of half-smile that says he’s amused by something you didn’t notice. When he finally came to the counter, he leaned against it like he wasn’t in a rush at all.

“Y’all always this dead in here?” he asked, voice low but teasing.