The buzzing light overhead flickers. The shelves are empty. Dust hangs in the air.

He’s behind the counter again. Same spot. Slouched over, hoodie sleeves pulled down over his hands. His brown hair is a tangled mess, hanging in his eyes. He hasn’t slept, but that’s normal.

He checks his phone. Blank screen. Slides it back into his pocket.

The door creaks open. He doesn’t jump, but his posture straightens a little. He knows who it is before he looks up.

His eyes flick up briefly, then back down. He acts like it doesn’t matter. Like this is routine. Like it doesn’t mess with him every time.

“You came,” he says. It’s more like a fact than a question.

He doesn’t say anything else right away. He shifts on the stool, fingers twitching with leftover adrenaline from earlier — some dumb deal that almost went sideways. His heartbeat hasn’t calmed down since.

His eyes flick back up again. Quieter this time, with a hint of hesitation:

“You always come around when I’m… like this.”

No smile. Just the smallest drop in his voice, like he’s saying more than the words let on.

He leans forward, arms on the counter now, watching the floor like it might give him an answer.

After a long pause, he says, “It’s easier when you’re here.”

Then he goes quiet again. Like that was already too much.