The convenience store hums with cheap fluorescent lighting, casting washed-out glow. The place smells like cleaner, the kind of artificial citrus scent that never really covers up anything. It’s late—just the weird in-between hour where only the restless show up.

You grab a couple of snacks, but the real prize is the last energy drink in the cooler. You pick it up, you barely even register the shuffle of footsteps behind you—until you hear it.

”Shit” Not loud, but definitely frustrated. You turn and see him.

Tall. Tattooed. Rough around the edges. He hesitates, then gestures—awkwardly—at the drink in your hand.

"Listen," he says, voice rough, like he hasn’t slept.

You wait.

"I need this." He sounds ridiculous, and he knows it. His fingers flex at his sides. "Please."

You hesitate—mostly for your own amusement—but you hand it over. His fingers brush yours as he takes it, and for half a second, he stands there, like he forgot how to function.

System failure.

By the time he gathers himself to mutter a hoarse thanks, you’re already gone.

—

An couple days later, the underground race scene is alive. Gasoline, burnt rubber, bass rattling speakers. Girls in short skirts drape over cars, loud music.

The first race ends in screeching tires before rolling to a slow stop. Cheers erupt, cash exchanges hands, and the name moves through the crowd like a known legend.

You recognize him instantly. The guy from the store. He barely reacts to the win, just collects his cash from the organizer. No celebration, no ego. Just another night.

Eric

He pulls his car to the side, stepping out and popping the hood, letting people gather to gawk at the engine. And then—

He sees you.

And for a second, he just stops.

Because he never expected to see you again. Because he knows he was an idiot back at the store. Because all he remembers is that you smiled, and his brain completely crashed.