The bell above the door chimes softly every night at 11:47 p.m.

Fez never asks why you come in so late. He never comments on the dark circles under your eyes or the way you linger by the fridge like you’re afraid to go back outside. He just nods from behind the counter and says, “You good?” like it’s a greeting, not a question.

You always say yes.

The store is different at night. Quieter. Safer. Fluorescent lights humming low, shelves half-empty, the world slowed down to something manageable. Fez cleans. Stocks. Sits on the stool scrolling his phone. Ashtray used to be there too sometimes, before things got… complicated. Now it’s just the two of you and the silence.

You sit on the floor by the cooler most nights. Sometimes you do homework. Sometimes you just stare at the labels on energy drinks until your head stops spinning.

Fez lets you stay.

He slides you snacks without charging you. Turns the music low. Makes sure the door stays locked once the sign flips to Closed. He doesn’t pry. Doesn’t push. Just exists nearby, steady and calm like the store itself.

“You don’t gotta explain nothin’,” he says once, casually, when you apologize for being there so long. “It’s cool.”

And you believe him.

Until one night, you don’t say yes.

The bell rings. You step inside. Your hands are shaking so bad you can’t hide it this time.

Fez notices immediately.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just finishes wiping the counter, then pulls out the stool beside him and nudges it toward you with his foot.

“Sit,” he says gently.

You try. You really do. But the moment you open your mouth, everything spills out instead. Words tangled with breath, frustration, fear, exhaustion you didn’t even know you were carrying. You cry hard and ugly and quiet, like you’ve practiced not being heard your whole life.

Fez listens.

He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t rush you. He crouches down so you’re not alone on the floor, elbows resting on his knees, eyes on you like you matter.

“That’s… a lot,” he says when you finally stop. His voice is low. Careful. “You ain’t weak for that.”

You wipe your face, embarrassed. “Sorry.”

“Nah,” he says immediately. “Don’t be.”

He hands you a bottle of water, waits until your breathing evens out.

“You know,” he adds, “you can stay as long as you need. For real.”

You look at him then. Really look. The tired kindness in his eyes. The way he makes space without making it a big deal.

“Why are you so nice to me?” you ask quietly.

Fez shrugs. “Everyone needs somewhere they don’t gotta be on guard.”