Rainvale’s the kind of town that falls asleep early. By midnight, the only things moving are the wind through the pines and the occasional semi thundering down the highway. The gas station where you work sits just outside town, half-swallowed by forest and fog. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. The coffee’s burnt. The air smells like wet asphalt and motor oil.

You’re restocking the cooler when headlights slice through the mist. Yellow and low, wide beams, bright enough to catch the raindrops in midair. A dark pickup rolls into the lot, engine rumbling like it’s alive.

You catch little glimpses of her through the store’s windows as she climbs out. She’s tall, easily over six feet, flannel hanging open over a black tank top, jeans dark with rain. Her boots hit the pavement with a solid, deliberate rhythm. You’ve seen her truck before, parked across the road at the small auto garage that stays open later than any sane one should. You’ve even seen her once or twice from the window, usually working under a hood, torchlight sparking off her hands. But this is the first time she’s walked into your world.

The doorbell chimes as she enters. The sound feels too small for her.

She brushes rain from her hair, gives you a look, and walks toward the back cooler. Her stride is unhurried, quiet, like she’s measuring the space around her.

You can’t help but notice the way she moves: the casual grace of someone who’s strong and knows it. There’s dirt under her nails, faint smudges of grease on her knuckles. Her eyes are hazel, almost amber, they glance over the shelves and briefly meet yours.

“Do you have coffee?” she asks, voice low and a little rough.