You don’t mean to keep coming back.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

It’s always something small—needing a drink, grabbing snacks, forgetting one thing and remembering it ten minutes later. The bell above the convenience store door jingles, and there you are again.

Fez notices.

He never says it at first. Just gives you that calm nod from behind the counter, eyes flicking up in recognition like he’s mentally checking something off.

“Hey,” he says. Same way every time.

“Hey,” you reply, pretending this isn’t your third visit this week.

You wander the aisles like you’re browsing for the first time, even though you already know where everything is. Fez pretends not to notice how you circle back to the counter slowly.

“You forget somethin’?” he asks one evening, not looking up as he rings up your items.

“No,” you say too fast. Then, “I mean—yeah. Maybe.”

Fez hums softly, like he expected that.

Ashtray’s in the back, the store quiet except for the fridge hum and the occasional car passing outside. Fez slides your change across the counter, fingers brushing yours just briefly.

“You come by a lot,” he says, neutral but not accusing.

Your face warms. “Is that bad?”

He finally looks up, meets your eyes. “Nah. Just noticed.”

That’s the thing about Fez—he notices everything. The time you always show up.