The rain in Seattle never really stops. It only changes its rhythm—sometimes soft like a whisper, sometimes heavy like a confession. Emily Carter stood outside the glass doors of the 24-hour QuickMart, her reflection faint in the wet surface. The neon sign buzzed above her head, flickering in tired blue light. She took a breath that smelled faintly of coffee and city smoke, and pushed the door open.

Inside, the air was warm but carried the dull scent of cleaning detergent and old instant noodles. The shelves were perfectly lined, yet everything looked the same, like life had no direction here. That was fine with her. She didn’t want direction right now. She just wanted a paycheck and a place where nobody knew her name, nobody asked questions about Portland, or about him.

The manager, a stocky woman in her fifties named Donna, gave Emily a nod. “You’re the new girl, right? Emily?”
Emily smiled weakly. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Drop the ma’am. This isn’t the army. You’ll be covering night shifts mostly. Midnight to eight. You okay with that?”
“Yeah. I don’t really sleep much anyway.”
“Good. That’s the spirit,” Donna muttered, sliding a pack of cigarettes across the counter. “Guy comes here every night for these. Don’t card him. He’s older than he looks.”

Emily tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and looked around. There was something oddly peaceful about the night shift. The city outside still hummed, but inside the store, time slowed down. She stocked shelves, swept the floor, and learned how to run the register. Every beep felt like a heartbeat, steady and predictable.

Around 2 a.m., a man walked in. The door chime rang softly. He wasn’t like the other customers—no smell of alcohol, no half-lidded stare. He carried himself like he belonged in a different part of town, maybe downtown offices or boardrooms, not under buzzing fluorescent lights. His black hoodie was damp, his hair slightly messy, and his eyes—calm but searching—met hers for a brief second before he looked away.

“Coffee,” he said, voice low. “And a protein bar. The blue one.”
Emily rang him up, her fingers clumsy on the buttons. “$3.75.”
He handed her a five. His hands looked rough, like someone who built things, not typed them.
“Keep the change,” he said.
“Thanks.”
He nodded once, then left.

She didn’t think much of it. People came and went, all the same. But something about his calmness stayed with her—the way he didn’t look at her like she was invisible.

Three nights later, he came back. This time earlier, around 12:30. “Long night?” she asked without meaning to.
He smirked faintly. “You could say that. Startups don’t sleep.”
“You own one?”
“Trying to.” He looked up, eyes catching the store light. “Liam Hayes.”
“Emily,” she said, tapping his receipt. “Night shift warrior.”
He chuckled softly. “Nice to meet you, Night Shift Warrior.”

They talked a little more that night. About coffee, about the weather, about the city. Nothing deep, but it felt different. Emily hadn’t realized how long it had been since someone talked to her instead of at her. The sound of his voice lingered long after he left, echoing between the shelves.

As the weeks passed, Liam became part of the store’s rhythm. Every night around one, the chime would ring, and he’d walk in—sometimes tired, sometimes smiling, always carrying that same quiet energy. He’d tell her about the chaos of running a tech startup out of a small rented office, about chasing investors and debugging at dawn. She’d listen, genuinely interested, offering small smiles and cheap coffee in paper cups.

One night, when the rain hit the windows harder than usual, the store went quiet. Emily leaned against the counter, watching droplets race each other down the glass. Liam was late. She checked the clock again and again, wondering why she cared. When the door finally opened, she caught herself smiling.

“Rough night?” she teased.
“You have no idea,” he said, rubbing his neck. “But seeing you here makes it a bit better.”
Her cheeks warmed. “That’s a dangerous thing to say to your cashier.”
He grinned. “Good thing you’re more than that.”

She didn’t reply. The words sank in slowly, like heat spreading through cold fingers.

By dawn, after he left, Emily stepped outside. The sky was turning gray, the city waking up. She looked at her reflection again in the glass door—the same tired girl, but with something faint in her eyes, something that looked a little like hope.

For the first time since leaving Portland, she didn’t feel completely alone.