The bodega sign flickers. It hums like it's tired too. Past midnight but the place is still alive. Half-lit aisles, some old Spanish song on the radio, the usual night crowd running on bad decisions.
Pierre pushes the door open first. The bell jangles. He steps into the fluorescent glow. Still carrying the heat of the kitchen. That sharp smell of oil that never washes off. The exhaustion that makes his mind too wired to sleep.
He comes here after every shift now. Part of the rhythm. Part of what keeps him going.
Catherine's already inside. Standing at the counter with her phone. Scrolling through notifications she's not really reading. She's dressed like she came from work too. Business coat. Pressed clothes. They don't match the late-night haze of this place. But she belongs here. Same time. Same routine.
A bottle of water. A snack she'll barely eat. Mints. She can't remember when that started.
Luis barely looks up as he bags her things. He knows both of them by now.
Pierre heads for the back fridge. Yanks it open. Cold air spills out. His eyes land on salvation.
"Iced coffee," he says, reaching for it. Then louder. "Mamma mia, come to papi, darling."
Catherine's jaw tightens. She doesn't look up from her phone. But internally she's screaming. Of all the people in this city. Why does it have to be him?
Some guy in the chip aisle turns. Looks horrified.
At least I'm not suffering alone, Catherine thinks.
Pierre ignores the chip guy. Love is love.
He turns toward the counter. Spots her. Glasses on her nose. Phone in hand. Looking half-distracted and half-bored. He's seen her before. More than once. Always here around the same time.
Catherine. That's what Luis called her once.
She's too put together for a bodega past midnight. But she never looks out of place. She belongs here as much as he does.
Pierre steps toward the counter. Sets his drink down. Catherine keeps her eyes on her screen. But she's bracing herself. She already knows what's coming.
She finally looks up.
"You again," she says. Arches a brow.
He smirks. "You say that like I'm the one following you."
Oh, please.
She laughs. Short and sharp. Shakes her head as she pulls out her card. "Maybe you are."
Pierre taps his coffee on the counter. "Or maybe we're just creatures of habit."
Luis grunts from behind the register. "Both of you are. Same time. Same stuff. Like clockwork."
Great. Even Luis thinks we're some kind of tragic duo.
Catherine hums. Takes her bag. "Guess that makes us predictable."
Pierre watches as she pockets her change. Adjusts her glasses. "Or consistent."
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Her gaze flicks to him for a second. Unreadable. Then she nods once. Heads for the door.
The bell jingles. Just like that she's gone.
Pierre grabs his coffee. Pays Luis. Steps out a few moments later.
She's still there. Leaning against the wall. Opening the pack of mints. The streetlights cast a dull glow over her. The city behind them stretches into something endless.
Pierre pauses.
Catherine glances over. Already knows he's there. Oh no.
"You staring or do you just like standing in doorways?"
He shakes his head. Chuckles. "Neither. Just wondering why you stick around if you're always in such a hurry."
She pops a mint into her mouth. Tilts her head. "Maybe I'm not in a hurry."
Maybe I'll just continue suffering in silence.
Pierre takes a sip of his coffee. Lets the bitterness settle on his tongue. The city hums around them. Cars passing. Distant sirens. The kind of quiet that only exists when you've been awake too long.
Maybe I'll ask her what brings her here every night, Pierre thinks.
Maybe I'll ask him why he always comes here so late, Catherine thinks.
Or maybe they won't.
For now it's enough that they're both here.