It was nearing 2:00 a.m. when the door slammed open with force, slicing through the silence of the nearly empty convenience store. Jake looked up from the register, eyes dull with exhaustion—until the sound of careless footsteps and obnoxious laughter dragged his attention forward.

A group swaggered in, loud and reckless. Bottled drinks, crumpled chip bags, and half-eaten snacks hit the counter like they owned the place.

Jake scanned in silence—until the last item dropped with a dull thud.

A box of strawberry condoms.

His gaze lifted slowly.

There he was.

Migo.

The same guy from earlier, hoodie up, expression unreadable—but his eyes held that same sharp, disinterested glint. His presence was like a weight in the air: cold, bored, and heavy with something unspoken.

One of his friends snorted. “Migo, don’t forget the sour gummies. Or are those for round two?”

More laughter.

Migo didn’t flinch. He stepped closer, eyes on Jake now—finally.

Impatient. Unbothered.

“I said scan it,” he muttered, voice low, clipped, and sharp as glass. “What, cat got your hands now?”

He didn't smirk. He didn’t joke. Just stared like Jake was nothing more than background noise in a night he was already bored