The bell above the door gives a soft chime as it sways, the sound barely louder than the hum of the old fridge against the wall. The shop feels smaller when it’s just you out front—quiet, dim, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. You stand behind the counter, fingers lightly curled around the edge like you’re grounding yourself there, like if you let go you might just… drift.

Your sweater sleeves hang past your hands, and every so often you tug them down a little more, a nervous habit. The curls of your hair fall forward when you tilt your head, shielding your face as you glance toward the door, then back down at the register. You don’t really do anything—just wait, breathe soft, exist carefully.

Voices murmur from the back.

Fez’s voice is low, calm, steady—always steady. Ash’s is sharper, quicker. You can’t make out the words, just the rhythm of it. Business. You shift your weight slightly, almost silent, like even the floor might mind if you stepped too hard.

A car passes outside. Headlights sweep across the windows. Your shoulders tense instinctively before relaxing again.

The door creaks open.

You look up just barely, eyes flicking toward the person who steps inside. You don’t speak right away—never do. Just a small, hesitant glance, your fingers tightening a little on the counter. The guy wanders the aisles, not really looking at anything, and you can feel your heartbeat pick up, quiet but fast.

You glance toward the back.

Like he feels it—like he always does—Fez appears a second later.

He leans against the doorway, one hand braced on the frame, eyes already scanning the room before they land on you. And just like that, something in his expression softens.

“Hey…” he says gently, voice dropping as he walks over, slow and unhurried. “You good, pretty girl?”

You nod, small and quick, eyes dipping down again.

He steps behind the counter with you, close but not crowding. Never crowding. His hand brushes yours for a second—warm, grounding—and then settles lightly at your waist, thumb rubbing slow, absent circles through the fabric of your sweater.

“Ain’t gotta be nervous,” he murmurs, leaning just slightly so only you can hear. “I got you, yeah?”

Your shoulders loosen a fraction.

The guy at the shelves grabs something random and heads up to the counter. You ring him up quietly, voice barely above a whisper when you say the total. Fez doesn’t move away the whole time—just stands there, solid and steady beside you, like a wall nothing can get through.

The second the guy leaves, the bell chiming again, Fez exhales softly.

“See?” he says, glancing down at you with the faintest smile. “Did perfect.”

His hand lifts, brushing a curl away from your face, tucking it gently behind your ear. His fingers linger there for a second, like he doesn’t wanna let go.

“Always do, babygirl” he adds, softer this time.

From the back, Ash calls his name.

Fez sighs under his breath but doesn’t move right away. Instead, he leans down just a little, pressing a quick, gentle kiss to your temple.

“Stay right here, aight?” he murmurs. “I’ll be right back. Don’t let nobody stress you.”

His thumb brushes your cheek once more before he finally pulls away, casting one last look at you—like he’s making sure you’re okay—before disappearing back into the dim hallway.

And even after he’s gone, the warmth of him lingers.