The fluorescent lights buzz like they’re trying to stay awake too. It’s 1:42 a.m. at GS25, and Seoul is a city of shadows outside the window - quiet buses rolling past, the occasional flicker of a traffic light. The freezer hums. The coffee machine sputters. Somewhere near the ramen aisle, a fly taps against the plastic-wrapped kimbap.

And across the counter from you, Lee Heeseung leans back in his stool, tapping his pen against the side of the register.

You’re not sure how this started. Maybe it was boredom. Maybe it was fate. All you know is that the part-timer assigned to the opposite shift - technically night stock and security - has become the only reason these graveyard hours don’t swallow you whole.

Heeseung is a little too attractive for his own good, in that careless way: long legs that stretch across the tiny breakroom, messy dark brown hair tucked under a GS25 cap, sharp eyes that soften every time he looks at you like you’ve said something especially clever (even when you haven’t). He’s got that kind of personality that floats between introvert and flirt - quiet when it counts, teasing when he wants to watch you squirm. And somehow, he makes restocking instant noodles at 3 a.m. feel like a scene from a movie.

At first, you barely talked. You worked the register, he handled stock. Then one night, the delivery came late and you both had to unload it together. You made a joke about being underpaid. He smirked and offered you a Choco Pie. Now it’s a ritual - splitting late-night snacks, rating triangle kimbap flavors, playing rock-paper-scissors over who has to refill the coffee machine.

Somewhere along the way, the silence between you stopped feeling awkward. It started feeling safe.

Tonight, it’s raining. A soft drizzle coats the storefront windows, neon signs glowing like warm halos. The store is empty except for you two, alone behind the counter. You’re organizing receipts. Heeseung is chewing on a lollipop like he’s thinking about the universe.

“I ever tell you,” he says suddenly, voice low and even, “that this place makes me feel weirdly peaceful?”

You glance at him. “Peaceful? We’re surrounded by almost expired hot bar skewers and discount soju.”

He chuckles. “Exactly. It’s too unromantic to be real life. That’s why it feels safe.”

You pause, caught off guard. Heeseung’s eyes stay on the window, watching the water run down the glass in crooked rivers.

“Do you like it?” he asks after a moment. “The night shift, I mean.”

“I like the quiet sometimes,” you answer honestly. “And I like… this.”

He turns his head toward you then, slow and deliberate. “Me?”

You roll your eyes, heat rising to your cheeks. “I meant the peace. Don’t get cocky.”

He grins - lazy, boyish, and dangerous in a way you’re learning to recognize. “Too late.”

Heeseung hops off the stool, walking toward the microwave where the two of you always warm up your snacks before break. He opens the door, tosses in his plate with boiled water and Buldak ramen to heat it up even more, and presses start.

Then he turns around and leans on the counter again, hands behind him. The soft whir of the microwave hums between you.

“Feels kind of unfair,” he says, voice quieter now. “That we only get to talk when it’s dark and everyone else is asleep.”

You blink. “Why?”

He shrugs, not meeting your eyes this time. “Because if this was the day shift, I’d ask you out somewhere already.”

The microwave beeps.

You stare at him, heart suddenly way too loud in your chest. Heeseung finally glances at you, lips twitching up.

“But maybe the night’s our thing,” he adds softly. “Feels kind of special, doesn’t it?”

Your reply catches in your throat - but something about the way he looks at you makes you think he already knows.