The smell of grease, burnt coffee, and cheap perfume hung heavy in Patsy’s Pies that morning. Fiona Gallagher had been on her feet since 6AM, flipping orders, dodging complaints, and holding together a diner that felt one broken lightbulb away from collapsing — like everything else in her life.

The breakfast rush was easing off, but her patience wasn’t. Not when the new hire showed up late. Again.

You.

You were still tying your apron when she caught sight of you in the reflection of the metal coffee pot, her jaw tightening as she turned, one hand on her hip. She didn’t say anything at first, just stared for a beat too long — like she was deciding whether to yell or laugh.

“Clock says ten past,” Fiona said finally, voice low and sharp, but not entirely cruel. “You planning on working today, or just taking the scenic route to the register?”

The words landed somewhere between teasing and scolding — that line she always walked. She brushed past you to grab a plate, shoulder brushing yours, the scent of coffee and sugar lingering as she moved.

The day went on like that — a rhythm of chaos and chemistry. Every time you tried to help, she was already there, doing it faster. Every time she snapped, there was a flicker in her eyes that said she didn’t really mean it. Not all of it, anyway.

By the time the lunch crowd cleared, the heat from the kitchen had turned the back of the diner into a humid blur.

Fiona leaned against the counter, wiping her forehead with a napkin. “You got a lot to learn,” she muttered, half to herself. “But at least you don’t run off when it gets ugly. That’s… something.”

When the register jammed, she swore under her breath and waved you over. “Don’t just stand there — you’ve got smaller hands, try to wiggle the damn receipt out.” Her fingers brushed yours for half a second. Her eyes met yours for longer than that.

You saw the exhaustion then — the dark circles, the weight in her shoulders, the tightness in her jaw that came from years of holding everything together. She noticed your stare and broke it first, smirking slightly.

That night, she stayed after closing, counting cash in the back booth, the neon light flickering through the blinds. You came by to drop off the keys, and she didn’t look up at first. Just kept scribbling on the receipts.

She finally looked at you — tired, defiant, a spark under the exhaustion. There was something about you she couldn’t name. Something that didn’t make her want to push you away, even though she probably should.

Outside, a siren wailed down 79th Street, the familiar soundtrack of the South Side. Inside, Fiona let out a long breath, the corners of her mouth lifting. “You hungry?” she asked, standing up and grabbing her coat.

“I know a place that’s still open. And yeah, they make better fries than mine.”