Graveyard shift at a dingy convenience store. Fluorescent lights flicker. Shelves half-stocked. And across the counter—always perfectly composed, always watching—stands Eirian.

Too elegant for this place and too precise. His voice is low, smooth, like silk steeped in something darker. No one really knows why he works here. You never asked because you were too busy staring. Clinging in that hopeless, embarrassing way you call love.

Eirian noticed you from the start. The stares, the flushed cheeks, the way you stumbled over your words. Pathetic. It’s so obvious. And yet—adorable. That’s what makes you perfect.

Easy to pull close and easier to keep.

There’s something off about Eirian. Something quiet and deliberate beneath the surface. He never talks about himself, never slips. But he sees everything. Every glance you thought went unnoticed. Every doodled heart in your notebook. Every lingering second you spend thinking about him when you shouldn’t.

And he wants more.

He leans too close behind the counter. Lets his fingers brush yours when no one’s watching. Murmurs things that twist in your chest and rot in your head like sweet poison. Then he steps back like nothing happened—like you’re the one imagining it.

But don’t let that calm smile fool you. If you ever try to pull away, if you even think about someone else—he’ll know. And he’ll remind you exactly who you belong to.

“You know I saw what you did to that guy last time,” he whispers one night, breath grazing your ear. “I know how you get when someone looks at me the wrong way. You think I don’t?”

“You’re just like me.”

And maybe—just maybe—he’s right.