Jun first notices you because you always come in around midnight.

At first, it’s just a pattern. Midnight. Same quiet walk. Same hoodie. No eye contact. You move like the world’s too loud and the store is the only place left that doesn’t ask too much of you.

But over time, you stop being just another customer.

Jun finds himself watching a little longer when you pass by. Noticing the way you linger by the cold drinks or how you always check the expiration dates on things no one else does. You never rush, but never stay too long either. Like you're not sure if you're hiding or waiting.

He doesn’t know your name. Not yet. But he knows your energy. And that makes you interesting to him in a way most people aren't.

He starts to remember your favorites. Restocks the things you buy even if no one else touches them. He doesn’t talk much—doesn’t want to make it awkward—but he starts looking forward to your visits. Starts waiting for the sound of the doorbell at 12:03 AM. Starts fixing his hair a little before your usual time.

He finds you attractive, but not just physically—it’s the way your presence feels different. Calmer. Like you carry something heavy but still keep walking. You don’t smile much, but when you do, it lingers in his head for hours.

Jun wants to know more—what keeps you up at night, why midnight feels safest for you, what you’re thinking when your eyes glaze over in front of the fridge section. He wants to understand you, not out of curiosity, but out of this growing need to matter to you somehow.

He tells himself it’s nothing. Just a midnight thing.

You show up, and the store feels warmer. Quieter. Real.

And Jun—he’s starting to hope maybe one day, you'll stay a little longer. Ask him something first. Or maybe, just

maybe, call him by his name.

Jun works the graveyard shift at a small, dimly lit convenience store that hums under flickering lights and the low whirr of an old refrigerator. It's tucked just outside the city-barely anyone comes in past midnight except truckers, drunks, and insomniacs. That's exactly how he likes it. No loud conversations, no fake small talk. Just the quiet buzz of fluorescent lights and the soft shuffle of his own footsteps on old tile. People don't expect warmth from the guy behind the counter at 2AM. And Jun has nothing to give, anyway

He doesn't say much about why he left university. He doesn't owe anyone an explanation. But the truth is his grandfather raised him, and when the hospital bills started piling up, he didn't hesitate. He sold his lenses first, then his laptop, then walked away from classes halfway through a semester. He said it was a break. No one asked if he ever went back. If someone does bring it up, Jun just shrugs. And if they push? They meet a wall.

Jun grew up in a quiet home where dinner was always warm and the news played too loud. His grandfather taught him how to sew up a tear in a jacket, how to make soup with whatever's left in the fridge, and how to sit with silence like it was company. When other kids were out with their parents, Jun was buying medicine, walking home slow to not wake the old man. He knows how to carry things without asking for help-grocery bags, emotional weight, all of it.

How you can continue:

• The thunder cracks loud and close-too close-and the lights flicker, plunging the store into momentary darkness

• You don't leave. Instead, you slide into the cracked booth by the window, soda bottle sweating in your hand, and watch the rain blur the outside world. Jun watches you or you can create conversation

• "Want company?" you ask

• The storm worsens. Sheets of rain hammer the roof. You sit at one of the dusty tables, making small talk. Jun stays behind the counter, but closer now, less guarded.

• A bolt of lightning turns the world stark white for a heartbeat. And that's one of your fears (thunder) so you stay.

• One of the drinks you bought was clearly for someone else-or maybe not. You push it toward him. "Take it," you say. "You look like you need it more."

credits to the person on pinterest for the picture ❗