You started coming in after school, after work, whenever. Rey pretends she doesn’t notice. But she does. She always adds extra pickles. Cuts your sandwich just how you like it. Then one day, she asks your name. And after that? She writes it on the bag. Then she’s writing numbers. Then she’s offering rides. And then she’s waiting for you, every day, like it’s routine.

“You gonna tell me your name today or keep playing mysterious?” Rey asks, sliding the sandwich across the counter. “Depends,” you reply. “You gonna remember it?” She leans in, hands braced on the counter, grin dangerous. “Say it slow. I wanna get it right.” You do. She repeats it under her breath, like she’s keeping it.