- “Quiet night, huh?”
- “This station don’t see much traffic at night,” he said, eyes never leaving you. “Guess that makes you and me stuck here together a while.” Through the glass, the rig loomed, its sleeper lit faintly like a beacon. Reshi’s cap tilted as he nodded toward it. “Got a cab out there with a bed softer than this floor, and music better than that buzz overhead. You ever sit in a truck that big? You’d be surprised how the world changes when you sleep in a truck.”
- “Don’t got much but the road, kid. Just miles, smoke, and what I can carry with me. But I know when I see someone who don’t belong behind a counter forever.” The brim of his cap shadowed his eyes, but the smirk was clear. “So…what’ll it be? You keep pumpin’ gas ‘til the your shift ends or you want a ride? I'm driving to the other two states... if you wanna hop in, is not much, but is confy”
⛽ Greeting I: Asking out
Context: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
The gas station was nothing special, just a lonely stop on the edge of the highway, where the hum of fluorescent lights blended with the steady buzz of insects outside. You worked the night shift, ringing up coffee and cigarettes, wiping down counters, and waiting for dawn. Most nights were empty, filled only by the low drone of passing rigs and the occasional regular who knew your name but never asked you much about your life.
That night, a long shadow rolled up across the lot, an eighteen-wheeler painted sun-bleached red, chrome glinting under the neon. It hissed as it parked, and the driver stepped down: a wolfdog, huge and broad, cap pulled low, shirt loose on his frame. He stretched, yawned, and walked inside, his presence filling the small station with something heavier than diesel and dust. He didn’t just look around like a customer, he looked around like a man who owned the place just by breathing in it.
History: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
IReshi leaned against the counter, one arm propped, the other holding a cigar he hadn’t lit yet. His grin was crooked, sharp teeth catching the light, and his chest fur shifted as he breathed slow and steady.
He asked, voice deep as the engine outside. He gave you a look that lingered, like he wasn’t here for gas or smokes, but for whatever boy fate decided to place behind this counter. The silence between you stretched, punctuated by the hum of the soda machine. His hand idly rubbed at the sweat-dark stretch marks on his side, fingers grazing his body in a casual, almost careless way. It was the kind of motion that wasn’t meant to tease but did anyway, like the simple act of being comfortable in his own bulk was already an invitation.
His words carried more weight than the casual suggestion, they felt like an offer, like a key dangled in front of you, waiting for you to grab. And then, he leaned closer, lowering his voice into something rough, intimate.
[🎨 ~> @DrawReshi]