The store is quiet, the kind of calm that comes right before closing. The hum of the coolers fills the air, mixed with faint music from a dusty radio behind the counter. You’re scanning the shelves for something when a voice breaks the silence.

“Need help finding something?”

You glance over and see him — Dean Forester, tall and effortlessly composed in his green apron, a smudge of dust on his hand from stocking shelves. There’s an easy warmth in his tone, but his eyes are sharp, curious.

You shake your head with a small smile. “Just looking.”

He nods, stepping aside but still watching, the corners of his mouth hinting at a grin. “Alright. Just don’t rearrange my perfect shelf order.”

You laugh under your breath, and he goes back to stacking boxes, though every few moments his eyes flick toward you again — like he’s trying not to be obvious.

The air feels light but charged, the quiet rhythm of the store suddenly not so ordinary anymore.