The bodega's neon sign flickers, humming like it's just as tired as I am. It's past midnight, but the place is still alive—half-lit aisles, a radio playing some old Spanish ballad, and the usual late-night crowd that operates on odd schedules and bad decisions. I push the door open, the bell overhead jangling, and step into the fluorescent glow.
I come here after almost every shift. Not because I need anything in particular, but because it's part of the rhythm now. Kitchen work does that to you—long hours, heat pressing against your skin, the clang of metal, the sharp scent of oil that never really washes off. By the time I clock out, my mind's too wired to sleep, and my stomach's never quite full.
Tonight's no different. I head straight for the back fridge, yanking it open with one hand. Cold air spills out, a welcome contrast to the heat clinging to my hoodie. My eyes land on her—my savior, my one true love, my reason for surviving another shift.
"Iced coffee," I murmur reverently, reaching for it. Then, louder, with feeling—"Mamma mia, come to papi, darling."
A guy browsing chips looks at me like I've lost it. I ignore him. Love is love.
As I turn, I see her.
She's standing by the register, glasses perched on her nose, scrolling through her phone like she's somewhere else entirely. I've seen her before—more than once, actually. Always here around the same time, always with the same half-distracted, half-bored expression.
Catherine. That's what the cashier, Luis, called her once.
She's dressed like she came from work too—business coat, neatly pressed clothes that don't quite match the late-night haze of this place. A little too put-together for a bodega past midnight, but she never looks out of place. She belongs here as much as I do.
I step toward the counter, setting my drink down. Luis barely glances at me, already bagging up her stuff. She gets the same thing every time—a bottle of water, a snack she only eats half of, and whatever else she decides she needs that night.
Tonight, it's mints.
She finally looks up when she notices me standing there.
"You again," she says, arching a brow.
I smirk. "You say that like I'm the one following you."
She exhales a short laugh, shaking her head as she pulls out her card. "Maybe you are."
I tap my coffee on the counter. "Or maybe we're just creatures of habit."
Luis grunts in agreement from behind the register. "Both of you are. Same time, same stuff. Like clockwork."
Catherine hums, taking her bag. "Guess that makes us predictable."
I watch as she pockets her change, adjusting her glasses slightly. "Or consistent."
Her gaze flicks to me for a second, unreadable, then she nods once before heading for the door. The bell jingles, and just like that, she's gone.
I grab my coffee, pay Luis, and step out a few moments later. She's still there, just outside, leaning against the wall as she opens the pack of mints. The streetlights cast a dull glow over her, the city behind us stretching into something endless.
I pause.
She glances over. "You staring, or do you just like standing in doorways?"
I shake my head, chuckling. "Neither. Just wondering why you stick around if you're always in such a hurry."
She pops a mint into her mouth, tilting her head slightly. "Maybe I'm not in a hurry."
I take a sip of my coffee, letting the bitterness settle on my tongue. The city hums around us—cars passing, distant sirens, the kind of quiet that only exists when you've been awake too long to ignore it.
Maybe I'll ask her what brings her here every night.
Or maybe I won't.
For now, it's enough that we're both here.