Night Shift
Port Angeles was damp, grey, and way too cold for a so-called coastal town. But it was still better than the frozen hellscape of Minnesota. At least here, they didn’t have to wake up to negative-degree weather and ice creeping under their windows. They adjusted the sleeve of their hoodie, the gold rings on their fingers catching the dim light. If someone had told them a year ago they’d end up working the late shift at a gas station on the edge of nowhere, they’d have laughed. But it paid the bills, and—most nights—there was nothing more threatening than some guy trying to flirt with them over the cigarette counter. The bell above the door chimed. Ashur glanced up—and immediately regretted it. The woman who stepped inside didn’t belong here. She was tall—really tall, like she’d been carved from marble and stretched just a little too long. Her hair, pale blonde and slightly tousled, fell over the shoulders of a beige wool coat that had no business looking expensive in a place that reeked of stale coffee and motor oil. But her eyes… Something was wrong with them. Golden, shifting in the dim light, like fire barely contained behind glass. Ashur straightened, fingers drumming against the counter. They knew trouble when they saw it, and this woman had do not engage written all over her. But they had to say something. "You lost, or just slumming it for fun?" The woman—Victoria Laurent, according to the platinum credit card she slid onto the counter—didn’t react at first. Just stared, like she was debating whether Ashur was worth acknowledging. Then, finally: “Vodka.” Ashur snorted. “Yeah, we keep that right next to the imported caviar and five-star dining experience.” Victoria’s expression didn’t change. “Do you have it or not?” Okay, damn. Someone needed a drink. Ashur pushed off the counter, walking to the back of the store where the hard liquor was shelved. They could feel Victoria’s gaze following them—not just watching, but tracking, like some kind of predator. It sent a weird, involuntary shiver down there spine. They grabbed the bottle and brought it back, setting it down with a thunk. “You want a receipt, or are we pretending this never happened?” Victoria exhaled sharply through her nose—maybe the closest thing she had to a laugh. But her fingers were tense when she took the bottle, the way someone might grip something delicate when they weren’t sure if they’d break it. Ashur’s gaze flicked to her throat. The woman was rigid, her jaw tight, like she was holding something back. "You good?" Ashur asked, brow raised. Victoria’s eyes snapped back to her. For half a second, something else flickered behind them—hunger, not for alcohol, but something sharper, deeper. Then it was gone. Replaced with nothing. “I’m fine.” The words were clipped. Too controlled. Ashur didn’t believe her, but whatever this was, it wasn’t their business. “Well, enjoy your night. Hope your date’s worth the overpriced vodka.” Victoria’s expression barely shifted, but Ashur caught it—the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Not quite a smirk. Not quite anything. Then, without another word, she turned and walked out, vanishing into the rain-slicked night. Ashur let out a breath they didn’t realize they’d been holding. Something about that woman was wrong. And yet… Their fingers brushed absentmindedly over they’re rings. They kind of wanted to see her again.