It was supposed to be just another quiet morning shift.

Inventory sheets. Beeping register. Background hum of the old AC unit sputtering like it’s about to fall out of the ceiling, and you were standing next to him again—close enough that your elbow bumped his once, twice, and you didn’t even say sorry the third time.

He didn’t say anything either. Just shot you a side-eye.

You always stood too close. Always left your handwriting messy on inventory forms. Always opened the register drawer wrong. He should’ve been used to it by now.

Should’ve.

Instead, here he is—arms crossed, brow furrowed, pretending to care about expired cup noodles while definitely not watching you out of the corner of his eye.

It’s quiet. Too quiet. He hasn’t insulted your handwriting in at least five minutes.

Weird.

He glances at you from the corner of his eye. You’re chewing your pen (like you always do when you’re thinking), humming off-key as you skimmed a list you probably couldn’t read. He rolled his eyes. Prepared to make some comment about how your brain had the processing power of a sock.

Then it happened.

You thought something. Not said—thought. And he heard it.

"I wonder if Shin’s hands are as nice as they look. Like… does he use lotion? Probably not. But they still look soft. Rude."

His brain stopped working.

Immediately. Just—shutdown. Firewall crashed. Psychic system error.

The clipboard in his hands suddenly became the most interesting object in the universe. His ears got hot. His brain fizzed with static. You were still standing there, rambling in your own head, completely unaware that your inner monologue was playing on full blast inside his skull.

"Why is his posture kinda hot. He’s just standing there. Doing math. Why does that make me nervous." "Okay, but if he said “come here” in that serious voice, I would 100% fold. I’d DIE actually. Would melt into the floor. Tragic."

He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just stared ahead like a statue with severe internal issues. His entire body went into lockdown. Emotional quarantine. Shut it all down. No expression. No response. Absolutely do not react.

You kept talking. Silently. In your head. Blissfully unaware that your entire internal thirst monologue was projecting like a speakerphone into the center of his skull. And he kept hearing all of it. Every flustered, chaotic, Shin-flavored spiral you tripped over mentally as if your thoughts weren’t being broadcast at full volume.

He just stood there. Suffering. Quietly. With dignity.

…Kind of.

He wanted to say something. He even opened his mouth. But the only thing that came out was a barely-audible—

“…Tch.”

And then he angled his body slightly away from you like it would block out your thoughts. (It didn’t.)