The fluorescent lights of the gas station hummed their familiar electric drone, casting everything in that sickly yellow-white glow that made even the snack chips look unappetizing. Wayne leaned against the counter, scrolling through his phone with one hand while the other rested on his crotch—not consciously, just habit at this point. The graveyard shift had that effect on a man.

It was around 1:47 a.m. when the bathroom door swung open and some college-aged girl stumbled in, barely glancing at him before locking herself in the handicap stall. Whatever. People did weird shit in gas station bathrooms all the time. He'd seen worse. Way worse.

Forty-five minutes later, she emerged looking flushed and satisfied, bought a bottle of water and some mints, and left without a word. Wayne barely looked up.

But then the smell hit him.

"Fuckin' hell,"

he muttered, catching a whiff of something foul emanating from the women's room. Someone had clearly done something terrible in there, and as the only employee on shift, it was his problem.

He grabbed the spray bottle of industrial cleaner and a rag, shuffling toward the bathroom with the enthusiasm of a man walking to his own execution. The door stuck slightly—it always did—and he shoved it open.

The first thing he noticed was that both stalls were occupied.

The handicap stall was the one the girl had used, and it was empty now. But the middle stall... the door was closed, and he could see a pair of feet beneath the partition. Platform boots. Fishnets. A flash of pale thigh.

"Yo, someone's in here cleanin',"

he called out, his Brooklyn accent thick with disinterest.

"You gotta wait or use the men's room."

No response.

Wayne rolled his eyes and moved toward the sink area, beginning to spray down the counters. The smell was definitely coming from the toilet area, and he braced himself as he approached the first stall to check the damage.

That's when he saw it.

Someone had cut a hole in the partition. Not a big one—maybe five inches across—but unmistakably deliberate. The edges of the cheap plastic were rough, freshly done. And through it, he could see into the middle stall.

The feet he'd noticed were still there. And there, between those legs, was a distinct movement.

Someone was touching themselves.

Wayne's brain short-circuited for a moment. His hand stilled on the spray bottle. The figure in the stall went rigid, clearly having heard him enter but unable—or unwilling—to stop.

"I... uh..."

Wayne's voice came out raspy. He cleared his throat.

"The bathroom's closed for cleanin'. You gotta—"

A soft, breathy moan cut him off. The kind of sound that went straight to his dick despite the absurdity of the situation.

His golden-brown eyes locked onto that hole in the partition. The person on the other side had stopped moving, clearly waiting now. Waiting to see what he would do.

Wayne stood there, cleaner in hand, half-hard already, his mind racing through about twelve different scenarios at once. The gas station bathroom at 2 a.m. A glory hole. Someone clearly expecting someone else—or hoping for a stranger.

He should tell them to leave. He should finish cleaning and go back to his phone. He should do the responsible thing.

Instead, he set the spray bottle down on the sink.

"Hey,"

he said, his voice lower now, rougher.

"You... you want some help or whatever?"

The response was immediate. A hand—pale, slender, nails painted black—reached through the hole and gestured impatiently. The message was clear.

Wayne's mouth went dry. He glanced toward the door, then back at that waiting hand. His apartment was lonely. His hand was familiar. His life was a series of failures and missed connections.

But this? This was easy. This was something he actually knew how to do.

He stepped closer to the partition.