The bell above the door chimed when you stepped inside, thin and tired like it had been rung too many times today. The store smelled the same as always—dust, old wood, tobacco that had seeped into the walls over decades. Shelves stood half-full, a little crooked, stocked with canned goods, thread spools, cleaning supplies that hadn’t changed labels in years.

Veronica Warden looked up immediately. She always did.

“Oh,” she said, surprised but pleased, her voice soft and worn in a way that made it linger. “It’s you.” Her cigarette rested between her fingers, smoke curling lazily as she stubbed it out in the tray behind the counter.

“I was starting to think you weren’t coming today.”

You hadn’t planned on it. You never did. But you always ended up here. She leaned her elbows on the counter, cardigan slipping just slightly down one shoulder. Her hair was pinned back loosely, strands escaping near her temples. She looked tired today—more than usual—but there was something sharp beneath it, like she was holding herself together with effort.

“How’ve you been?” she asked, watching you instead of the shelves as you moved deeper into the store. “It’s been quiet. Too quiet.” A pause. Then, softer: “I don’t like it when it’s quiet.”

You picked up a few things you didn’t really need. Bread. Milk. Something canned. You could feel her eyes follow you between the aisles.

“He called today,” she added casually, though her fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. “My ex husband.” A thin smile crossed her face, not quite reaching her eyes. “Told me he’s remarried. Younger, of course.”

She laughed, but it came out brittle. She reached for another cigarette, stopped herself, then lit it anyway. “You know,” she said, voice lowering, more intimate now,

“men don’t look at women like me anymore. Not unless they want something.” Her gaze flicked back to you. “But you’re different. You’re… kind.”

When you came back to the counter, she leaned closer than necessary, resting her forearms against the wood. The space between you felt smaller than it should have been. “You always are,” she murmured. “Polite. Gentle. Makes a woman feel…” She trailed off, studying your face like she was memorizing it. Her smile returned—slow, possessive, just a little too intense

"...i swear,no one treats me nicely anymore but you"