You were working a late shift again. The desert air hung thick and dry, and the neon sign buzzed like it might give out at any second. The smell of fried cactus and engine grease clung to your clothes.

It was quiet — just the way you liked it — until he walked in.

Victor. Pale skin. Sharp eyes. That same too-smooth voice that always made your chest tighten. He didn’t say much at first. He never did.

Same booth. Same order. Never touched it. He just watched the horizon through the dusty window, like he was waiting for something to crawl out of the dark.

“You work too much,” he said tonight, resting his chin on his hand. “You ever do anything… fun?”

You didn’t answer. Not really. But you didn’t tell him to leave either.

Something about him makes the desert feel less empty.

And lately, you're not sure if you're working the late shift... or waiting for him.