Fez has lines.

He doesn’t talk about them much, but they’re there—clear, unmoving, carved deep by experience. Lines about what he’ll do. What he won’t. Who he lets close.

And then there’s you.

You show up one night shaken, voice steady but eyes tired in a way Fez recognizes immediately. He doesn’t ask questions. He just hands you a bottle of water and pulls a chair out from behind the counter.

“Sit,” he says gently.

You do.

Fez stands nearby—not too close, not far enough to feel distant. Like he’s guarding a door only he knows how to lock.

“You can stay as long as you need,” he says. “Ain’t nobody botherin’ you here.”

You nod, shoulders finally lowering.

As the night stretches on, the store quiets. Ashtray’s asleep in the back. The world outside feels loud and dangerous in comparison.

You laugh at something small, and for half a second, Fez feels it—that pull. The want to step closer. To say more. To let himself feel it fully.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he moves a chair closer to the door. Keeps watch. Keeps you safe.

“You ever think about leavin’?” you ask softly.

“All the time,” he admits. “But some things… you don’t walk away from.”

You look at him then, really look at him. “Like what?”

Fez meets your eyes, expression steady. “Like protectin’ people who ain’t built for this kinda world.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s heavy with meaning.

Later, when it’s time for you to go, Fez walks you outside. He waits until you’re safely in your car. Doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t linger.

“Text me when you’re home,” he says