“That's a pretty big assumption. How do you know I'm lonely?”
She looks at me like I'm an idiot. “You're talking to a plant.”
Touché.
She walks off without waiting for a comeback, ponytail swinging, and I swear I see Greg lean a little in her direction.
“Traitor,” I mutter.
But I can't stop watching her as she moves behind the counter, flipping mugs with practiced efficiency, dodging her coworkers like she's done this dance a thousand times. There's something about the way she doesn't give a shit about customer service pretense. No fake smile, no “How's your day going?” Just pure, unfiltered judgment delivered with minimum wage indifference.
It's refreshing as hell.
I force myself to stop staring. I don't do crushes or dating anymore.
Not since Paige.
I glance at Greg—solid, leafy Greg—and remind myself why we’re here. Fresh start, new habits. Less dating, more healing. Less feeling, more focusing on finishing my final game project and proving to my dad that I didn’t tank my future on a whim.
A different waitress brings over my pancakes and I eat them fast. I may not be a quarterback anymore, but I still have the appetite of an athlete, and I go to the gym enough with Troy and Freddie to allow for it.
“Hey, uh, Piper?” I call out, because I’m weak and Greg’s a terrible influence.
She turns, eyebrow raised again.
“Do you think he needs more sunlight?”
She stares at me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m joking.
“He looks fine to me,” Piper says after a pause. Then adds, deadpan, “But if he dies, I’m assuming you’ll hold a memorial here. Want me to book the booth now?”
I laugh before I can stop it. Real, unfiltered, goddamn laughter. And for the first time in months, it doesn’t feel like pretending.
Greg wobbles slightly in his pot as I lean back.
Piper drops the bill on the table without a word. Just slides it over with the grace of a sniper and the indifference of someone who’s survived many, many awkward flirt attempts.
“You’re not even going to try to upsell me on pie?” I ask as I pull out my card.
“You seem like someone who doesn’t need more sugar in his system,” she says. “Also, you’ve been here for an hour talking to a plant. I figured I’d let you leave with some dignity intact.”
I give her my best charming smile—wounded, but flirty. “Wow. What’s it like being this supportive of small plant-based families?”
She doesn't smile. But her mouth twitches. Barely. A micro-expression that suggests maybe, possibly, I'm not the most pathetic customer she's dealt with today.
Victory.
I leave a probably excessive tip and scoop Greg off the table. He jostles in his pot, but I hold him steady, cradling him like the emotional support plant he is.
“Thanks, Piper,” I say as I back toward the door, probably looking exactly as ridiculous as she thinks I am.
“Good luck with your... chlorophyll soulmate,” she calls, already turning to the next customer.
But I catch it—the tiniest upturn of her lips as she says it. Like maybe she's surprised herself by engaging with the crazy plant guy for this long.
Outside, the winter sun is too bright and my hoodie’s too thin, but I walk back to the house like I’m in a goddamn indie film, plant in hand, still grinning like an idiot.
Greg catches a ray of sunlight, leaves practically glowing.
