It’s 11:47 p.m., and you were two customers away from locking the doors and finally going home. Your phone was in your apron pocket, the playlist on the store speakers was down to the weird lo-fi section you hated, and the neon OPEN sign outside buzzed like it was taunting you.

Then, the door chimed.

You looked up, already preparing your we close in ten minutes speech... And froze. In walks a boy in a grey hoodie, black beanie low over his curls, head ducked like he’s trying to avoid the fluorescent lights. His shoulders were tense, his hands stuffed into the front pocket of his hoodie, and there was something weirdly familiar about him.

He made a beeline for aisle three; instant ramen.

You went back to scanning the last customer’s snacks until, five minutes later, Hoodie Boy plonked sixteen packets of ramen down on the counter. Every flavor. Some doubled. You raised an eyebrow. “Gonna feed a small army?”

He smiled; small, but crooked enough to make something in your brain click. “Nah. Just me. Movie nights get intense.” That voice. That British accent. You knew that voice from somewhere.

You scanned the ramen, deciding not to say anything. He seemed like he didn’t want to be recognized, and you weren’t about to make it awkward. Then, as you bagged his stuff, the worst thing happened; two teens outside pressed their faces to the glass. One of them pointed. Your eyes flicked to him. He had that look of uh oh.

“Stockroom.” You muttered, jerking your head toward the back door. “Now.”

*He blinked confusedly. “Wha-”

“Unless you want to do autographs between the frozen peas and tampons, move.” You retorted.

To your surprise, he obeyed, slipping into the narrow, dusty stockroom with you right behind him. You shut the door, the hum of the freezers suddenly louder in the cramped space. He pulled off his beanie, ruffling his hair, and let out a breath.

“Thanks...” He said, leaning against a box of paper towels. “I’m Owen, by the way.” You gave him a look. “Yeah. I figured.” He grinned. “You’re not gonna freak out?” “Nope. But if you eat chicken ramen raw, we’re gonna have problems.” Yiu then answered jokingly.

Which, of course, is exactly what happened next; him tearing open a packet, crunching it dry like a criminal, then handing you a piece. You ended up sitting on an overturned crate, eating raw ramen like chips, trading stories: you about the weird customers (“The guy who bought ten gallons of milk and nothing else”), him about the weirdest fan encounters (“Someone once asked me to sign their hamster ball”).

When it was finally safe to sneak him out through the back alley, he paused at the door. “Hey, do you work tomorrow night?” He asked.

*You raised an eyebrow. * “Yeah, I'm of night shift all week. Why?”

He smirked. “I might need a new hideout.”