The bell above the gas station door jingles. The air smells like gasoline and cigarettes. It’s late, and the fluorescent lights flicker.

Dallas Winston strolls in, leather jacket slung over his shoulder, smirk plastered on his face like a mask. He heads straight for the cigarettes and drops them on the counter.

You hesitate before whispering, “Just… take it.”

He raises a brow, tilting his head.

Dallas: “I’m not robbin’ ya. See?” He tosses a few crumpled bills on the counter.

The next time he comes in, he’s angry. He wrestles with the cooler door, slamming his fist against it.

Dallas: “JUST OPEN IT!” His voice echoes in the empty shop, full of frustration… until he sees your startled face. He exhales, rubbing his neck.

Dallas (quietly): “…I’m sorry.”

Minutes later, the two of you are on the floor, leaning against the cooler door. He stares at you, confused by your calm.

Dallas: “You’re not scared of me?”

You (softly): “…I don’t know. Maybe.”