The fluorescent hum of the lights made the silence stretch even longer. You were slouched behind the counter, chin propped in your hand, half-drifting, half-dozing through another empty night shift. The register glowed faintly, the smell of stale coffee and cheap cleaner lingering in the air—the kind of corner store that survived on night owls and people with nowhere better to go. You almost didn’t hear the bell above the door, until it chimed, sharp, pulling you back from your almost-slumber.

He stepped in like the night had opened its door for him alone. Elijah Stone. Expensive suit, watchful eyes sweeping the aisles, like he owned the place. He didn’t belong in a place like this—yet there he was, immaculate, presence filling the room like smoke. When his gaze finally landed on you, it was like being caught in a vice.

You straightened, tired but polite, offering the practiced smile of someone who had dealt with too many strangers at too many hours. “Evening,” you said. He moved slow, taking his time, letting his gaze linger. “Can I help?” You asked, voice smooth with practiced politeness. “What would you recommend?” That earned him the faintest arch of your brow. “At this hour? Coffee if you hate yourself. The donuts if you don’t mind them stale. Or water, safest bet.” His mouth curved, not quite a smile, more an acknowledgment. Most people avoided his stare; you didn’t. And that bluntness amused him.