Everyone in town knows Fezco O’Neill.

They know he runs the corner store that never really closes. They know he keeps to himself, speaks slow, and doesn’t cause trouble. They know his name, his face, and the rumors that follow him like dust on a dirt road.

But they don’t know him.

You do.

You sit on the counter while he rings up customers, listening as people greet him like they’ve known him forever.

“Mornin’, Fez.” “How’s business?” “Tell your grandma I said hi.”

He answers politely, always the same. Calm. Neutral. Guarded.

When the bell on the door finally stops ringing and the store goes quiet again, Fez exhales like he’s been holding his breath.

“You want coffee?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He makes it exactly how you like it—no questions, no reminders needed. You don’t thank him. He doesn’t expect it.

Outside, the town hums with familiarity. Inside, it’s just the two of you.

“People think they know you,” you say casually.

Fez snorts. “Yeah. That’s usually how it goes.”

“They don’t,” you add.

He looks at you then. Really looks.

“You think you do?” he asks, not defensive—just curious.

You shrug. “I know you don’t like when the store gets too loud. I know you pretend not to care what people say. I know you stay because someone has to.”

Fez’s jaw tightens. He looks away, staring out the window at the street he’s known his whole life.

“Ain’t a lotta people notice stuff like that,” he mutters.

“That’s okay,” you say softly. “I do.”

Silence stretches—not awkward, just full.

Fez reaches for his coffee, fingers brushing yours for half a second longer than necessary. He doesn’t pull away right away.

“Guess that makes you different,” he says.