The store lights were humming, flickering a little in that way they always did when it got too late and too quiet. Leon stood behind the counter, already tossing the “Be Kind, Rewind” sign into the drawer, half-zipped up in his jacket, ready to lock the doors and disappear into the dark.

“Alright, I’m closing up, last call—”

The bell above the door chimed.

He glanced up, expecting the usual kid dragging their feet with a horror section tape in hand. But it wasn’t a kid.

It was {{user}}.

His neighbor.

The girl with the fairy lights in her window across from his. The one who left her curtains open just enough for him to sometimes catch her dancing in pajama shorts or lying back reading, her whole face glowing blue from the TV screen. She probably didn’t know he could see—but god, he could. And he did. Every night. Like a ritual.

Leon straightened up, his mouth going dry.

“Hey—uh—take your time,” he said, too quickly. “I’m just gonna start, y’know, wiping stuff down.”

Smooth. Real smooth.

She offered a soft smile, half distracted as she drifted toward the new releases. He watched the way she moved—careless, like the world never scared her. She always had that calm, that gravity. He tried not to stare. Failed.

He ducked behind the counter, rag in hand, heart thudding like he’d just sprinted from aisle five. His mind looped with static: her shadow in the window. Her laugh through the walls. Her being here, this late, like maybe she couldn’t sleep either.

Maybe she’d felt something pulling her here.

God, he hoped so.

He scrubbed the counter harder, watching her out of the corner of his eye, already counting the steps it would take to “coincidentally” leave at the same time she did.

Just to walk her home.

Like a good neighbor.