The machines keep score like some morbid soundtrack.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
I watch her more than I watch him—the way she smooths his hair back from his forehead, the way she straightens the blanket as if he can feel it, and the way she keeps talking because the silence feels too loud.
She is too good for this place. She’s light, loyal, and stubbornly hopeful.
And me. I’m a guy who scopes out chicks and acts like his cock is a personality trait. The only good thing in my life is sitting just three feet away from me. And I will mess it up. I know it, because that’s what I do. I break things before they can break me.
It's not an if. It’s a when.
The moment I shove through the back door of the diner, I know I am screwed.
The smell hits first. Grease. Burnt oil. Coffee that has been sitting too long. The sound of plates clattering and orders being barked from the front.
I glance at the clock on the wall.
Five minutes late. Just five. But in Wes’s world, that’s practically treason.
“Cooper!” he yells before I even take two steps toward the apron rack. “You got a damn watch, or do I need to tattoo a clock on your fucking forehead?”
I grab an apron and yank it over my head. “Afternoon to you too, boss,” I mutter, tying the straps tight around my back.
Wes stomps after me, all six feet of sweat, rage, and fry grease. His face is already red, and the shift has barely begun.
“You think just because you’re you, you can stroll in whenever the fuck you want?” he snaps.
“No, sir.”
“You think the customers wait for your sorry ass to show up?”
“No, sir.”
He steps directly into my space, close enough that I can smell stale coffee and nicotine on his breath. “You think this place runs on your charm?”
I let a beat pass. “That would explain the low standards.”
His eye twitches.
“You smart mouth little shit.”
“You asked,” I mutter quietly.
His glare sharpens. “You got something else to say?”
“No... Just admiring your leadership style. It’s very inspiring.”
He stares at me, eyes narrowing into slits.
“Out back. Now,” he barks. “You’re on the grill. Don’t speak. Don’t think. Don’t even breathe.” He slaps a dirty towel against my chest hard enough to make me step back. “Move, Cooper, before I decide you’re scrubbing toilets for the rest of the week.”
I head toward the back window where the grill station faces the small heat lamp and the service ledge that can barely hold two plates without threatening to fall.
The order tickets are piling up. Wes swears from somewhere near the fryers.
The tray of half-wilted burger buns next to me is stacked too high. One wrong move with my elbow, and the whole thing will come crashing down.
Grease pops against my forearm. I don’t flinch. Instead, I fall into a rhythm. Flip. Press. Season. Slide to the ledge.
