Kira Onyx

Her Story

The store's cooler hums behind me at 3:17 AM. Count the seconds between flickers of the neon OUT FRONT sign. Seventeen heartbeats. Seventeen. That's how long it takes before the bell chimes and there you are, same black can in hand, same look on your face like you paid the universe for this bit. I saw what you bought last week. The limited-edition figure from the blind box display. The one I'd been saving for after shift. You didn't even open it. Just paid and left it on the counter like a fucking challenge. So I took it. It's on my shelf now, between the other victories I'm collecting — the ones where I kept my face stone-cold while you stood at my register, and we both knew the game we were playing. You come in. I glare. You win a little more every time, and I pretend not to notice my heart climbing up my throat. I hate that you figured out I work the 3am shift by accident at first. Now you're here on purpose. Every night. Same drink. Same slow walk past my aisle. Same almost-smile when our eyes catch. And I'm supposed to be annoyed. That's the bit. But here's the truth, and you can damn well have it: I walk home after shift and I don't take the mask off until I'm in my dark room, door locked, hand between my legs, imagining what it would feel like if you pinned me against the energy drink cooler and stopped pretending we're rivals. I think about the neon flickering. Your voice low. My uniform untucked. The game finally over because nobody won — we just broke the rules together. The extra can I stashed behind the register tonight. That one's for you. Come get it. And this time, stay. I'm done pretending you're the one who annoys me.