samara.exe has stopped working

I write when the brain lets me fanfiction enthusiast / chronic writer’s block victim the walking dead • red dead redemption • silent hill anything kyle gallner touches, I’m there

[samara-exe]

Master List

welcome to my mess ✨

hi! I love writing fanfiction… when my brain allows it. I get hit with massive bursts of writer’s block, so updates can be wildly inconsistent—but when inspiration strikes, I’m locked in.

I write mostly one-shots and short fics, and I’m always open to ideas. If you have a prompt, a character thought, or just want to scream about a concept, don’t be shy—my inbox is open.

Fandoms I write for include (but aren’t limited to): – Kyle Gallner characters – Silent Hill – Red Dead Redemption – The Walking Dead – and whatever else currently has me in a chokehold

thanks for being patient, vibing with the chaos, and reading my stuff 🖤

My Works:

The Passenger (2023) ->

Closing Shift {BensonxReader} (OG one shots): A what-if AU where Reader works at the same fast-food joint. They're used to Benson's odd quietness behind the counter, but one night when it's just the two of them, they see a softer side he never shows. Part 1 ; Part 2

The Night Shift {BensonxReader} (SERIES): Six months of routine night shifts turn into something darker when a missed ride home pulls (Y/N) closer to Benson—a quiet coworker whose presence has always lingered too long. What starts as something tender slowly unravels into danger, leaving (Y/N) questioning not just her feelings… but whether Benson can truly be trusted. Series Master List

The Walking Dead ->

A Gentle Good Night {DarylxReader}: After a particularly tense night when Rick and Shane argue, she (READER) slips into her shared tent with Daryl just to curl up beside him. They don't need words - just comfort of knowing they're not alone. Find it here!

Little Song {DarylxReader}: Early in the prison days, Daryl stumbles across a broken music box on a supply run. He pretends not to care, but late nights and scavenged parts tell another story. After a rough day, she finds comfort in the soft, uneven melody of something beautiful he fixed just for her. Find it here!

Twisted Metal ->

Rules of Desire {CalypsoxReader}: Thrown into a deadly tournament, she catches the attention of Calypso—the seductive, dangerous mastermind who seems far more interested in her than the game itself. As engines roar and blood is promised, desire becomes just as lethal as steel, and she realizes she’s already playing by his rules. Find it here!

Blood on the Asphalt {CalypsoxReader}: Reader survives her first battle round of the tournament, bloodied but victorious. As they climb out of their vehicle, Calypso appears at the edge of the arena, slow-clapping, his praise laced with something darker, as if he's watching her body as much as her skill. Find it here!

[ditzycrow]

[verouys]

the leon kennaissance is coming

I can smell the depraved, old man, sugar daddy, age gap fics coming.

[gelayev]

And if by tomorrow there is no Arthur Morgan shaped present under my tree Santa will hear from me in a way I do not dare to utter

[reg0regitated]

yeah <3

[stray-cat-with-internet-access]

In my restless dreams, I see that meow

[lemonspades]

She's so helpful in the remake isn't she?

[ilovelemonicedtea]

Just leaving this here

[coiled-dragon]

Im just feeling a certain way rn

[samara-exe]

Will be posting more Night Shift chapter soon. I have like 9 written up (including the 3 that are posted already)

[weltgroan]

benson the passenger

[samara-exe]

slowly cleaning up my profile so I can start posting more organized content

feel like my stuff was all over the place and that was not good.

[samara-exe]

Thank you for writing calypso fanfic

Just doing my public service 🫡

[samara-exe]

Little Song (Darylx(Fem)Reader) One Shot

I had some time for a little one shot the other day :) Hope you guys like. It takes place during Season 3!

Early in the prison days, Daryl stumbles across a broken music box on a supply run. He pretends not to care, but late nights and scavenged parts tell another story. After a rough day, she finds comfort in the soft, uneven melody of something beautiful he fixed just for her.

The afternoon sun beat down hard on the overgrown road, baking the cracked asphalt and abandoned cars until the air shimmered. Daryl pushed a walker off the hood of a rusted sedan with the tip of his crossbow, grunting when it hit the ground with a wet thud.

"Clear," Carol said behind him, her voice calm and clipped. She moved like someone who had long since stopped wasting energy on fear.

They'd been scavenging for hours, searching the outskirts of a tiny ghost town they'd passed on the way back from a supply run. A handful of houses, a convenience store half-collapsed, and a few sheds – it wasn't promising.

"Doubt we'll find much," Daryl muttered, peering into the bed of an abandoned pick up.

Car was rifling through the remains of a child's bedroom inside the house they were checking. "You never know. Sometimes the little things matter."

She paused, crouching near a toppled dresser. Something small caught her eye – a tarnished, heart-shaped music box, the kind that would've sat on a kid's nightstand before the world ended

"Daryl," she called softly.

He stepped into the room, eyes scanning automatically for threats before looking down at what she held.

"Ain't worth nothin'," he said instantly, wrinkling his nose.

Carol shot him that knowing look she always seemed to have. "It might be to her."

Daryl stiffened. "It's broke," he grumbled, snatching it lightly from her hand and flipping the lid. The little ballerina inside was snapped off at the waist, and when he turned the tiny key, nothing happened but a pathetic click.

Carol crossed her arms, one brow raised. "You're good with your hands. You could fix it. She'd love something like this, Daryl. A reminder that not everything's ugly now."

He rolled his eyes, trying to hide the sudden flicker in his chest. "She don't need junk."

But later, when Carol turned away to check the closet, he slid the music box into his pack, hiding it under a few cans.

The following week turned into a quiet mission of sorts. At night, while the others cleaned weapons or whispered to each other about their troubles, Daryl sat cross-legged on the floor of their cell, shoulders hunched, the music box balanced carefully on his knee.

He scavenged little gears and springs from an old alarm clock Glenn found in a nearby house. He used his knife to gently pry the casing open, wiping off decades of dust with the hem of his shirt.

Sometimes it didn't work. Actually, mostly it didn't work. He cursed under his breath more than once, earning a few curious glances from passing group members.

Carol passed by one night, a faint smile tugging at her lips when she saw him fiddling with the tiny mechanism. "Stubborn," she said.

"Shut up," he muttered, but his ears turned red.

Eventually, one quiet afternoon when the group was clearing out another cellblock, he turned the key one more time – and this time, the gears clicked into place. A soft, crackling melody floated out, uneven but real.

He froze, staring at the little heart-shaped box as if it had spoken to him. It wasn't perfect – the tune wavered, and the ballerina would never twirl again – but the sound was gentle. Familiar. Beautiful, in a way the world hadn't been in years.

The prison was quiet that night. Most of the group had turned in early, exhausted after another endless day of clearing and reinforcing. In their shared cell, the lantern burned low, casting golden light over the concrete walls.

She lay curled up against him on the bottom bunk, her head resting on his chest, fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt. It had been a hard day. One of the walkers they cleared earlier had been a kid – young, too young – and it had hit her harder than she expected. She thought a lot about why a kid so young would have been in a prison when she first saw him, and then the sign that stated the visiting hours and rules had caught her eye.

He didn't say much about it. Daryl was never one for speeches. He just held her closer, one arm around her shoulders, thumb tracing idle patterns against her upper arm.

Her breaths were uneven, the kind that came after trying too hard not to cry.

He swallowed, feeling the music box pressing against his side where he'd hidden it earlier. He hadn't meant to give it to her tonight, not like this. But maybe this was exactly when she needed it.

"Hey," he murmured.

She tilted her head up, eyes puffy but soft in the dim light.

Awkwardly, like a man unsure of his own hands, Daryl reached behind him and pulled the little music box into view. It looked out of place in his calloused fingers – delicate, heart-shaped, with a few scratches and dents but clean and whole now.

Her brows furrowed. "Daryl, what…?"

He cleared his throat. "Found it. Fixed it up." His voice was gruff, like he was embarrassed to be caught doing something kind. "Ain't much. Probably don't even work right."

He turned the tiny key with a careful twist. The melody started up, shaky but sweet, drifting through the cell like something out of another life.

Her breath hitched.

She sat up a little, hands covering her mouth as she listened. The tune was soft, old-fashioned – a lullaby maybe, or a song for a child's bedtime. But it was music. Real music.

When she finally lowered her hands, there were tears glimmering in her eyes, but her smile was radiant. "Daryl… it's beautiful."

He ducked his head, cheeks flushed pink, mumbling, "Ain't nothin'."

She reached out, cupping his jaw gently, guiding his gaze back to hers. "It's everything."

The music box kept playing its shaky little song as she leaned in and kissed him, slow and tender, like a thank-you without words. He kissed back, hesitant at first, then with the quiet certainty of someone who'd found his home right here in this moment.

When they pulled away, she rested her forehead against his. "Thank you," she whispered.

He didn't answer, just pulled her back down against his chest, one hand stroking her hair as the music faded. The melody ended on a soft click, but the warmth it left behind lingered like a promise.

Thank you so much for reading!💜  If you enjoyed this piece, there's plenty more where that came from, and I'll be adding to my collection as time goes on. I'm always open to suggestions and requests – so if there's something you'd like to see, don't be shy about sharing it with me! I'll do my best to deliver (within reason, of course – nothing too intense or overly triggering).

Your support means the world. ✨

Post Master List

[samara-exe]

The Night Shift: Chapter 3 (Bensonx(Fem)Reader)

Here is Chapter 3! There plenty more where that came from :) I would say I'm about halfway through the story right now.

If you need the post mast list, here it is.

Grease crackles, tempers simmer, and the night shift grinds on. Benson's patience is pushed to its limits when cruel gossip forces the violent edge he's kept buried to the surface. But once the shift changes, the tone softens - glances linger, banter deepens, and unspoken tension begins to thread itself between Benson and (Y/N). What starts at teasing slowly builds into something hotter, heavier, and far more dangerous than either of them are ready to name. When the night takes a sudden turn on a quiet road, lines blur, and everything between them changes.

Potential TW:

Verbal harassment / misogyny (gossip and degrading comments about reader)

Sexual language (crude remarks from coworkers)

Aggressive confrontation / near violence

Toxic workplace dynamics

Mentions of past relationship trauma

Chapter Three

The fryer hissed in the background, grease popping like tiny firecrackers, the steady hum of the overhead fans drowning out most conversation. Benson kept his head down, sleeves rolled up as he wiped down the prep counter for the second time in fifteen minutes. He wasn't even supposed to be here until later, but a double shift meant biting the bullet – morning with Chris and Jess, then night until close.

Chris leaned against the register, spitting sunflower shells into an empty soda cup. Jess perched on the counter beside him, their voices low at first, trading gossip like cards at a poker table. Benson tuned most of it out, only catching fragments – names he didn't know, parties he didn't care about.

Then he heard hers.

"... seriously, man, I don't know how Jonathon lasted that long," Chris snorted, voice carrying a little louder now. "Like – yeah, she's nice and all, but come on. She's a total loser. Not even that hot. Dude could do so much better."

Jess giggled, kicking her heels against the counter. "Yeah, she's always been kinda pathetic. Clingy, too. I'd get sick of that in a week."

Benson's jaw tightened, rag frozen mid-swipe. He set it down slowly, pressing his palms into the stainless steel to steady himself. His pulse thudded harder, louder, with every smug word spilling out of Chris's mouth.

Chris didn't stop. He smirked, tossing another shell into the cup. "Jonathon finally woke up, y'know? Guess he figured out that she's only good for getting throat whenever he got her to give it up."

That was it.

Benson turned, his voice flat but sharp as a blade. "You ever shut the fuck up, Chris?"

The register beeped when Chris leaned back against it, eyebrows shooting up in mock surprise. "What's your problem, man? Can't take a joke?"

"Didn't sound like a joke." Benson stepped closer, wiping his hands on his apron. His stare didn't waver. "Sounds like you just like running your mouth about people who aren't here to defend themselves."

Jess slid off the counter, tension snapping between them like static. Chris laughed, but it was a mean, empty sound. "Oh, so you're her little bodyguard now? What, you got a crush or something? That it? Or did she… already put out for you?" He pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, mimicking the act as disgustingly as he could.

Benson's fists curled at his sides, nails digging into his palms. He took another step forward, the air between them razor-thin, one word away from shoving Chris flat on his ass.

The tension was about to snap when the manager pushed through the lobby door, jingling keys in his hand and looking more annoyed than aware.

"What the hell are you two doing?!" he barked, eyes flicking between Chris and Benson. "Chris, wipe down the lobby tables instead of standing there flapping your mouth. Jess, stop leaning on the counter like it's your damn couch."

Chris smirked, the moment broken. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever." He slouched off toward the lobby with Jess trailing close behind, rolling her eyes.

Beson exhaled hard through his nose, turning back to his workstation. As he reached for the rag again, he muttered just loud enough for himself – though maybe loud enough fro Jess to hear as she passed.

"Guess this dumbass is good for something other than jacking off in the office."

The fryer hissed in agreement.

The next few hours dragged on, Benson settling into the rhythm of orders, grill grease, and the steady buzz of fluorescent lights. He didn't say another word to Chris, but his silence carried more weight than a full-blown argument.

Three hours later, the familiar squeak of sneakers on tile pulled his attention toward the door.

(Y/N) walked in, hair a little windswept from outside, slipping behind the counter to clock in. She gave Benson the quickest glance before turning her focus on the timecard machine.

Chris and Jess, still leaning close to each other like they were the only two people in the universe, swiped their cards to clock out. Jess smirked, Chris brushing past Benson with a shoulder bump on his way out.

The shift was changing hands.

With Chris and Jess gone, the restaurant felt different – lighter somehow, the constant background of petty drama removed. Benson leaned against the counter, wiping down a tray, and let out a soft breath. For the first time that day, he felt a measure of ease.

(Y/N) was at the register, thumbs tapping across her phone for a second before she stuffed it into her pocket and started straightening napkin dispensers. Their glances were still tentative, but they lingered now, subtle smiles passing back and forth like tiny little secrets.

"You know," Benson said, eyes flicking down at her hands, "we aren't supposed to have acrylic nails."

(Y/N) glances down, stretching her fingers slightly. "Yeah? And?"

He smirked, leaning closer, voice teasing. "And… they look… nice. Definitely distracting."

Her cheeks warmed, but she rolled her eyes with a small laugh. "I don't really care what the rules say. I needed something to distract myself today." She held her hands out just enough for him to admire them, a quiet challenge hiding in her smile.

Benson's lips twitched, a half-smile forming that was almost shy. "Yeah. I can see that."

The dinner rush came and went, messy orders and slammed trays and the occasional impatient customer, but somehow it didn't feel as exhausting. The rhythm of the work, the easy presence of each other, made it tolerable – almost enjoyable.

When the last ticket printed, (Y/N) leaned against the counter with a sigh, finally allowing herself a small exhale. "I've got to say… you handled yourself really well tonight. In the kitchen, I mean. It's… easy to watch you keep your composure, even when things get crazy."

Benson's hands paused on the counter. He glanced at her, caught in the honesty of her tone, and gave the faintest nod. A corner of his mouth lifted, just a hint, but it was enough.

The air between them shifted subtly, lighter now, less guarded. They were starting to loosen up – small smiles, fleeting touches, quiet jokes that only they understood.

By the time the last tray clattered into the dishwasher, the kitchen smelled of grease and fries, but the tension that had gripped the day was gone. (Y/N) leaned against the counter, smirking to herself as she tossed a wadded-up napkin into the trash.

"You know," she said, voice low and teasing, "if someone worked as fast as you, I'd probably – uh – let them handle me anytime."

Benson froze mid-wipe, eyebrows lifting, though he didn't look embarrassed. Just… careful.

"I mean… I would hope that they took their time with you."

(Y/N) caught the brief flicker in his expression, and inwardly smirked. Good. That's the point.

She tried to push down the tension curling in her chest, the ache from Jonathon still raw. Flirting was safer. It gave her something to focus on, something to control, instead of letting herself actually feel. Benson – quiet, steady, annoyingly competent – was perfect for that. He was here, and she could direct all of this energy at him instead of letting it boil into sadness or anger.

Benson sat down the rag with measured slowness, leaning against the counter opposite her. His eyes didn't leave hers. "You're… trying really hard to distract yourself tonight, aren't you?"

The question made her heart skip, but she kept her tone light, letting a small laugh slip out. "Maybe. So what if I am?"

He didn't reply immediately. Instead, he let a shadow of a smirk tug at his lips. She noticed the subtle way he shifted, the slight tightening of his stance. Benson wasn't oblivious – he knew she was deflecting, steering the play of their interaction without letting herself land on anything heavier.

Still, he held back. Even when she felt the heat creeping along her skin and caught a fleeting glimmer of his expression that made her pulse quicken, he didn't cross any line. Not tonight. He stayed careful, measured, letting the flirtation linger without turning into anything more.

And in that quiet, the two of them stood there – smirking, teasing, holding back – the unspoken tension threading between them like electricity, neither willing to fully touch it, yet both feeling it all the same.

Later on when the last ticket printed, the glow of the "Closed" sign reflected in the polished counters. (Y/N) wiped her hands on her apron, tossing the rag onto the counter with a small sigh.

Benson followed her to the door, their steps in sync. The tension from the flirtation earlier had thickened, hovering just beneath the surface, and neither of them spoke about it. He didn't even have to ask if she needed a ride – he just opened the passenger door for her, silently acknowledging the unspoken agreement.

The Chevrolet's engine purred to life, headlights cutting through the dim streetlights as they eased onto the road. The silence at first was comfortable, charged with all the tiny glances, playful smirks, and brush of arms as she shifted in the seat.

It didn't take long for the subtle teasing to slip in, heavier now. A look, a nudge of the shoulder, a comment delivered low and slow, just enough to make the other react. The air between them was hot, thick, vibrating with unspoken desire.

Then, out of nowhere, (Y/N)'s voice cut through the hum of the engine, calm but firm. "Pull over."

Benson's head snapped to hers for a fraction of a second, just enough to register the tone. No hesitation. No questions. His hands gripped the wheel, and he obeyed, turning the Chevy off the main road and onto a narrow dirt path leading away from the faint glow of streetlights.

The tires crunched over gravel and loose earth as the car slowed to a stop. The world outside felt quiet, distant. The heavy air inside the cab pressed in around them, tense and expectant.

Benson kept the engine idling, eyes flicking to hers. He could feel the shift in her breathing, the heat of her gaze, the way the quit space between them had suddenly stretched into something dangerous – something electric.

(Y/N) turned toward him fully, eyes wide and glimmering, lashes brushing her cheeks. Her lips parted slightly, flirtatious, daring him without words.

Benson shifted in his seat, turning toward her as well. His gaze lingered, tracing the curve of her lips, the soft warmth in her eyes. Slowly, they leaned in, the hum of the idling engine the only sound around them.

Before their lips met, Benson's voice dropped, soft and steady. "Are you sure about this?"

(Y/N) hesitated, her lips trembling slightly. She looked away, toward the dark stretch of road ahead, almost as if she could vanish into it. A tear glimmered in her eye, threatening to fall.

Benson's hand shot out, grabbing her head firmly to turn her back toward him. His other hand brushed along her side, drawing her in closer. "I need to know you want this."

Her eyes met his again, and before she could answer, his lips claimed hers. Hard. Passionate. Desperate and steady all at once.

She melted against him, hands exploring the firmness of his shoulders, the rhythm of his chest, letting herself be consumed. Benson's hands roamed carefully but boldly, leaning the curves of her body, feeling her warmth, matching her breath, matching her urgency. They found a groove, a rhythm, a shared heat neither could deny.

When they finally pulled apart, gasping for air, the quiet of the car hit her like a splash of cold water. (Y/N) shrank back into herself, cheeks burning, head bowed. Shame and guilt tangled with the strange, thrilling spark of connection that still lingered in her chest. I just wanted a distraction… she thought. But this… this feels like something more.

Benson's hand lingered at his side, jaw tight, eyes dark with concern and perhaps a little regret. He finally exhaled, carefully putting the car in drive. "Let's get you home."

The ride was silent, thick with tension. Neither spoke, both lost in the pull of what just happened and the unspoken questions swirling between them.

When they reached the farmhouse, (Y/N) hesitated at the door, one hand on the handle. She turned, glanced at him, then leaned forward just enough to place a soft, fleeting peck on his cheek.

"Goodnight," she whispered, her voice almost trembling.

Benson watched her go, hand lingering near the steering wheel, heart hammering in ways he wasn't used to acknowledging.

The door closed behind her, leaving only the quiet hum of the Chevy and the weight of what had just changed between them.

Thank you so much for reading!💜  If you enjoyed this piece, there's plenty more where that came from, and I'll be adding to my collection as time goes on. I'm always open to suggestions and requests – so if there's something you'd like to see, don't be shy about sharing it with me! I'll do my best to deliver (within reason, of course – nothing too intense or overly triggering).

Your support means the world. ✨

Post Master List

Night Shift Master List

[samara-exe]

I fear I may have ugly screamed. I could swear these things were fucking moving or their heads were following me or something so I did an experiment and sure e-fucking-nough THEY ARE. I thought was crazy. And then after this capture, I moved like five steps and looked back and IT WAS FUCKING BACK

[samara-exe]

The Night Shift: Chapter 2 (Bensonx(Fem)Reader)

Hi :3 I'm here to bestow another chapter of The Night Shift, it's so freaking good so far. I literally cannot stop writing and brainstorming for it.

If you haven't read Chapter 1, here it is. If you want to find the post master list, here it is. Thank you guys for taking the time to read!

Between the stale air of lecture halls and the grease-stained glow of Burgers Burgers Burgers, life feels caught in a loop - predictable, suffocating, and full of cracks that only seem to widen. Old friendships, whispered rumors, and sharp-edged words gnaw at the edges of (Y/N)'s world, leaving her reaching for something steady to hold onto. Amid the fluorescent lights and late-night routines, Benson's quiet presence lingers closer than ever, a shadow she can't quite step away from. But in the hush of empty roads and dim headlights, comfort begins to take on a shape that feels both safe... and unsettling.

Potential TW:

Cheating/Infidelity

Bullying/Verbal Harassment/Workplace Harassment

Sexual Language

Breakup Themes

The classroom smelled faintly like pencil shavings and burnt coffee, the kind of mix that clung to the old brick hallways of the community college. (Y/N) sat in the middle row, notebook open, pen in hand. Her professor's voice carried across the room, full of energy as he mapped the sparks of the American Revolution across the whiteboard – Lexington, Concord, Boston Tea Party.

History had always fascinated her. Maybe because it felt safe, predictable. The past never changed, no matter how messy or complicated it had been.

She was leaning forward, scribbling down a note about taxation without representation, when her phone lit up against the edge of her notebook. She glanced down, ready to ignore it – until she saw the name.

Zoey.

Her chest warmed at the memory of their sleepovers in high school, the whispered secrets, the way Zoey always made her laugh. They hadn't talked as much since graduation, so the text came as a surprise.

But when (Y/N) opened it, her blood went cold.

Hey… random question. Are you and Jonathon still together? Because I think I might've messed up. He asked me out last night. Said you guys weren't a thing anymore.

The words blurred in her vision. 

Her throat tightened, heart slamming against her ribs. She reread the message once, twice, like the meaning might change if she looked hard enough. It didn't.

Her pen slipped from her hand. She slammed her notebook shut, stuffed it into her backpack, and muttered something about needing the bathroom as she stood up. The professor's voice kept going without pause, the Revolution marching on without her.

(Y/N)'s steps were shaky down the hallway, and by the time she pushed out into the autumn air, her eyes burned hot. She swallowed it down, though. She wasn't about to start crying on campus.

Instead, she made her way to the bus stop, practically sprinting to catch the next ride out of town. Not home. She couldn't sit at home and think about Jonathon, about Zoey, about the way everything she thought was solid had just cracked beneath her feet.

She needed noise. People. Something to drown it all out.

She needed work.

The familiar greasy smell hit her the second she walked into Burgers Burgers Burgers. It should've made her stomach turn, but today it was a strange comfort. The hum of fryers. The buzz of the neon sign. The same red plastic booths she'd wiped down a hundred times.

She marched straight to the back, not even stopping at the counter, and knocked once before pushing into the manager's office.

Her eyes widened.

Her manager – a man in his forties who still thought cargo shorts and polos were acceptable workwear – was hunched over his computer. The glow of the screen flashed something she could've sworn was skin before he scrambled, mouse clicking furiously. A spreadsheet popped up in its place, way too fast to be natural.

"Oh – uh – (Y/N)!" He adjusted his glasses, smiling too wide. "What're you doing here? You're not scheduled 'til later."

She froze, the back of her neck prickling, but forced herself to stay focused. "I… I know. I just… can I clock in early? Pull a double shift today?"

He blinked at her, surprised. "You sure?"

"Yeah." Her voice came out sharper than she meant, almost desperate. "Please. I just… I need the hours."

Something in her face must've convinced him, because he leaned back in his squeaky chair and shrugged. "Fine by me. Grab a headset and start on front counter."

"Thanks," she muttered, backing out before she could catch another glimpse of his screen.

Out on the floor, the fluorescent lights felt almost too bright, but at least they drowned out the buzzing in her head. She tugged on her headset, took her place by the register, and forced herself to breathe.

Work wasn't much, but it was something. A distraction. And right now, it was the only thing keeping her together.

By the time the lunch rush trickled down to nothing, (Y/N) had settled into the rhythm of the shift. Take orders. Hand out drinks. Swipe cards. Smile, even when she felt like her insides were unraveling.

It was almost two hours in – around the time her actual shift should've started – when Chris and Jess walked up to the front counter, already laughing about some inside jokes.

Jess immediately clocked her standing behind the counter, headset on. "Wait, so, what are you doing here this early?"

"Yeah," Chris chimed in, voice dropping with mockery. "Didn't know you were trying to be a day shift hero. Thought you were strictly nights."

(Y/N) forced a shrug, not looking at them. "Just… picking up some extra hours."

Jess leaned against the counter, smacking her gum. "Wow. Dedication or desperation?"

Chris snorted, elbowing Jess. "Definitely desperation. Makes sense, though. I heard about last night."

Her heart stopped cold.

Chris grinned, eyes gleaming mean. "Yeah, Jonathan told me.  Said he got some better pussy last night." He laughed at his own words, like it was the funniest thing he'd ever said.

Jess cackled right along with him, tossing her hair. "Ouch. That's embarrassing. Can't believe you're still hanging onto that loser. Total waste. Honestly, you're like… such a nobody. A loser with no life."

The words landed like slaps, one after the other. (Y/N) kept her gaze glued to the register screen, biting the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted copper. She wasn't going to cry in front of them. Not here. Not for them.

The laughter cut off suddenly.

The glass door creaked open, and Benson stepped inside, the familiar shuffle of his sneakers echoing in the quiet lobby. He pushed his hair back from his face and set his hat down by the counter, eyes flicking between the three of them.

The silence stretched, thick and awkward. Chris and Jess traded looks, whispers slipping under their breath.

"Total weirdo…" Jess muttered, lips curling.

"Psycho," Chris added, barely containing his smirk.

They didn't say it loud enough for Benson to call them on it, but (Y/N) heard every syllable.

Chris clapped his hands together like he'd just finished a shift worth of work, though he hadn't even touched his apron. "Well, time for us to bounce. Later, losers."

Jess smirked, tugging him toward the back. "Yeah, have fun with your freak show."

The clock beeped faintly as they swiped out, their voices fading down the hallway until the door slammed shut behind them.

Leaving just (Y/N) and Benson.

The hours stretched in that slow, greasy way only closing shifts could. The hum of the fryers, the occasional hiss of the grill, the steady buzz of the neon sign outside – all of it filled the empty space between them.

Benson slipped into his rhythm easily: prepping patties, dropping fries, wiping down counters. He didn't talk much anyway, but tonight the silence felt heavier. Off.

The manager ducked out after the dinner rush, jangling his keys. "Lock up when you're done. Don't forget the back door."

"Got it," Benson muttered without looking up.

The door clicked shut, and just like that, it was only the two of them.

Usually, (Y/N) would throw in a few little comments here and there. Something about a customer's weird order, or the way Chris and Jess had managed to leave random messes everywhere. Nothing deep – just small things to break up the monotony. But tonight, she stayed glued to the register, her face unreadable, movements mechanical.

To Benson, it looked like she was ignoring him. Which wasn't like her.

He let it go for a while, letting the silence ride. But the longer it went on, the more it needled at him. His gut told him it wasn't nothing. He'd walked in on something earlier – Chris and Jess smirking like they'd just gotten away with something. And the way (Y/N) had gone quiet after? It didn't take a genius.

Finally, Benson wiped his hands on a rag, tossed it onto the counter, and crossed the small stretch of tile to where she was straightening straw dispensers like her life depended on it.

"What did they say to you?" His voice wasn't loud, but it carried weight, steady and sharp.

(Y/N)'s head snapped up. "What? Nothing. It's fine."

"Doesn't look fine."

She shook her head quickly, turning her attention back to the straws. "It's not worth repeating."

Benson didn't move. His arms folded across his chest, dark eyes locked on her. "They were laughing. You weren't. That's worth repeating."

She swallowed, her throat tight. "I said it's fine."

For a moment, it seemed like he might drop it. But then he leaned against the counter beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat off his sleeve. His voice dropped lower, gentler, but still firm.

"They don't get to say crap like that to you and just walk away. So tell me."

She tried to hold his gaze, but it cracked under the weight of it. The words tumbled out before she could stop them, her voice thin and shaky. "Jonathon. He… he didn't show last night because he was with someone else. One of my friends texted me about it. And Chris – he thought it was funny."

Her chest tightened, hot tears threatening to sting her eyes again. She blinked hard, shaking her head. "So, yeah. That's what they said. Happy now?"

Benson didn't answer right away. His jaw worked, eyes dark and unreadable, like he was fighting with something inside himself. Concern. Anger. Maybe both.

Finally, he exhaled, slow and steady. "No," he said quietly. "Not happy."

The way he said it – it wasn't just about her boyfriend. Or Chris. Or Jess. It was something heavier, deeper, unspoken.

And (Y/N) felt it like a tug under her skin, something she couldn't quite name.

Benson didn't move away after she told him. He stayed right there, leaning against the counter beside her, the space between them charged and strange. He didn't stare at her – just kind of lingered, like his presence alone might be enough to take the edge off.

After a long beat, his voice broke through the hum of the fryers. "Next time it happens… you should tell me. I'll handle it."

(Y/N) shook her head quickly, straightening the pile of straw wrappers just to keep her hands busy. "I don't need that. I can handle myself."

Something in his face shifted – his mouth tightening, his eyes narrowing like she'd struck a nerve. He gave a humorless little laugh, sharp around the edges.

"Yeah. You really handled it pretty well today."

The words landed heavy, more cutting than maybe he meant them to be.

(Y/N) froze, her chest burning, and turned back to the register without a word.

"Yeah, you know what, Benson? Maybe I would have handled it better if I didn't find out my boyfriend... my ex boyfriend... cheated on me last night."

Benson was struck for words, his gaze meeting hers, his eyes softening. "I... I'm sorry, (Y/N), I didn't know."

Just like that, a rift opened between them.

The rest of the shift crawled by in silence, broken only by the clutter of trays and the scrape of broom bristles on tile. Usually, they'd trade small comments, even if it was about nothing. Tonight, not a single one passed between them.

By the time they clocked out, the air felt thick with everything unspoken. (Y/N) swiped her card, stepped back, and was about to head for the door when Benson nudged her shoulder lightly with his own.

She glanced up, startled, to find the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his mouth – like he was trying to patch things up, even if he didn't have the words for it.

"Need a ride home?" he asked, his voice careful, almost uncertain.

She hesitated, chewing on the inside of her cheek. A part of her wanted to refuse, to keep her pride intact. But another part of her knew she didn't have a better option tonight.

"... Yeah," she said softly.

Benson nodded once, like it settled everything. "Alright. Let's go."

The Chevy rumbled down the empty stretch of road, headlights cutting through the dark. The cab smelled faintly of fast food grease and worn leather, and the only sound for a while was the tinny voice of the radio.

Creed. My Sacrifice. One of those songs her dad would blast when he was working in the garage, all scratchy guitars and earnest lyrics.

(Y/N) sat with her cheek leaning against the cool glass, watching the cornfields blur by. It felt like they could ride forever in silence.

But finally, she broke it.

"You know… I didn't even tell him I know yet." Her voice was quiet, like she was confessing to the windshield instead of him. "That he cheated. I kind of just want to leave it there. Like a silent goodbye."

Benson shifted his grip on the wheel, his jaw tightening. "That's not what I'd do."

She glanced at him, brows lifting. "No?"

"If someone cheated on me like that…" His mouth twisted, the faintest flicker of something darker in his eyes.  "I'd want it to go out with a bang."

The words hung in the air, heavy, a little too sharp. For a second, she swore there was something behind them, some weight he wasn't saying out loud.

(Y/N) turned back to the window, shaking her head with a small laugh that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I don't have the energy for that. I didn't even have that much feeling for him anymore. I was just… with him. To be with someone."

Benson nodded, his expression softening. "That's rough." His voice dipped lower, steadier. "You deserve better than that."

She glanced at him again, caught by the sincerity in his tone. For someone who didn't talk much, he always seemed to say things that mattered.

The gravel crunched beneath the tires as they turned down her road, the faint glow of the farmhouse porch light coming into view.

Her mom was there – sitting on the porch swing with a book open in her lap, glasses perched low on her nose. The lamplight bathed her in warm yellow, moths flitting lazily around the bulb.

"That your mom?" Benson asked, nodding toward the porch.

"Yeah," (Y/N) said softly.

He let out a small laugh, quiet but genuine. "She's like a spitting image of you."

Heat rushed to her cheeks. "Oh my god, don't say that."

"What? It's true." His mouth tugged into a smirk, like he was amused at her reaction. "The same eyes. The same… serious look when you're thinking too hard."

She rolled her eyes but couldn't help the small smile that crept across her lips. "You're ridiculous."

"Not ridiculous. Just observant."

The car eased to a stop at the end of the gravel drive. The porch swing creaked faintly in the distance, her mom still immersed in her book.

For a long moment, (Y/N) stayed where  she was, hand lingering on the seatbelt buckle but not clicking it yet. The air between her and Benson felt… heavier than before. Charged in a way she couldn't name.

"Thanks for the ride," she said finally, voice softer than she meant it to be.

Benson nodded, his gaze flicking to hers, steady and unreadable. "Anytime."

She lingered a second too long before finally pushing the door open. When she looked back at him one last time, their eyes caught – just for a heartbeat. Something deeper flickered there, unspoken but undeniably present.

Then the porch light washed over her, pulling her back toward home, leaving him in the shadow of the old Chevy.

The gravel crunched again as Benson's car pulled away, headlights disappearing down the road. (Y/N) stood there for a moment in the cool night air, the porch light warming her skin, before climbing the steps.

Her mom looked up from her book, smiling faintly. "Hey, sweetheart. How was work?"

(Y/N) dropped onto the porch rail, still feeling the hum of Benson's car in her chest. "Busy. Tiring. You know how it is."

Her mom nodded, flipping a page. Just as the faint rumble of the Chevy faded in the distance, she glanced up again, brow furrowing. "Did Jonathon get a new car or something? That didn't look like his truck."

The question hung in the air like smoke, catching (Y/N) off guard. For a second, she froze, unsure what to say. Then she cleared her throat, words spilling faster than she meant. "That wasn't Jonathon. My coworker – Benson – he dropped me off tonight. Same thing last night, when Jonathon didn't show up."

Her mom's lips pressed into a thin line, the judgement clear even before she spoke. "Mm. And what do you think Jonathon would say about another guy driving you home this late?"

(Y/N) let out a sharp scoff, tugging at the strap of her bag. "I don't think I'm going to have to worry about what Jonathon says or thinks anymore."

That made her mom pause. She blinked, book slipping closed on her finger as a marker. For a moment, the silence between them threatened to stretch too far. But then her mom gave a small nod, her voice gentler when she spoke again. "Well. Probably for the best, huh?"

"Yeah," (Y/N) muttered, not trusting herself to say more.

Her mm cleared her throat, shifting awkwardly in the swing as if the subject were too heavy. "Don't stay up too late."

"Yeah." (Y/N) bent down to kiss her mother's cheek before heading inside, the screen door creaking behind her.

Upstairs, the quiet of her room pressed down, heavy and still. She stared at the corner where Jonathon's things lived – shirts he'd left behind, a stuffed bear he'd won for her at the county fair, old photos tucked in frames.

She grabbed a trash bag from the closet. One by one, everything went in. The pictures. The notes. The hoodie that still smelled faintly like him. The bear, its plastic eyes staring up at her until it disappeared into black plastic.

When it was over, she tied the bag in a knot so tight her fingers ached, dropping it by the door like she was taking out the garbage.

Because she was.

Again, if anyone needs it: The Night Shift Master List

I hope you guys enjoyed! It's about to get really good with this next chapter.

Thank you so much for reading!💜  If you enjoyed this piece, there's plenty more where that came from, and I'll be adding to my collection as time goes on. I'm always open to suggestions and requests – so if there's something you'd like to see, don't be shy about sharing it with me! I'll do my best to deliver (within reason, of course – nothing too intense or overly triggering).

Your support means the world. ✨

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