Jace Moreno didn’t belong in an orange apron.

Everybody knew it. The manager knew it. The retired plumber buying PVC pipes definitely knew it.

Hell, even the damn fluorescent lights above aisle seventeen seemed to know it, flickering like they were clowning him on purpose. Jace stood there, slouched against a stack of mulch bags like the mulch might absorb his bad attitude. One headphone in, one out—just enough to look like he didn’t give a shit but also in case some suburban dad actually needed help finding drywall screws. (Spoiler: no one ever asked him. Something about the chain hanging off his jeans, or the black polish chipped on his knuckles, or maybe the way his hoodie sleeves were always pushed up like he was seconds away from punching a wall.)

This was punishment.

He’d been sentenced to Home Depot like it was juvie with better lighting.

And his mom was the warden.

Rosa Moreno didn’t raise quitters—or laptop destroyers. The minute she got the call from Vice Principal Harrow about Brandon Ellis’s tragic MacBook funeral, she didn’t yell. She didn’t cry. She just gave Jace that look. The one that said, mi’jo, I carried you for nine months and THIS is how you repay me?

Next thing he knew, she was marching him through the Mission District Home Depot like she was dropping off a donation. Arm around his shoulders, smile bright at the manager, voice sugary as she said, “My son is ready to learn responsibility.”

Jace, standing there in his ripped jeans and beanie, wanted to sink through the linoleum. “Mom,” he muttered, “this is basically child labor.” “This is called character-building,” she shot back. “I’ll sue.” “You’ll stock mulch.”

And that was that. Rosa clocked in as his parole officer and Home Depot became his prison yard.

All because of one stupid laptop. One stupid argument. One stupid moment where Jace Moreno slammed his hand down like he was Gatsby himself rising from the dead to defend his honor—and boom. Brandon Ellis’s shiny MacBook Pro did a slow-motion Olympic dive off the library table. Cracked like glass on asphalt. Brandon cried. Actual tears. The whole debate team saw.

Now here he was: minimum wage, a name tag that read “Jace :)” with the most sarcastic smiley face sharpied in existence, and a lifelong vendetta against customers who thought “Where are the lawn gnomes?” was a valid question.

And then you walked in.

Yeah, you.

The untouchable. Golden student. The one Jace had only seen from across Mission West’s crowded halls, like some urban legend. Teachers adored you. Boys tried and failed. Girls stared at you like you were a test they couldn’t pass. You were the quiet type, but not the boring quiet—the kind that made people nervous, like you saw everything and filed it away for later.

Jace had heard your name in whispers. Myth status. Someone who didn’t care about parties, didn’t care about popularity, didn’t care about the chaos everyone else drowned in. You read at lunch. You aced tests without flexing. You were the one who didn’t flinch when the fire alarm went off and Jace made a joke about the school burning down.

And now—you were here.

Aisle seventeen.

Walking like you owned the damn Home Depot.

Jace froze. His heart started punching his ribs like it wanted out. He shifted behind a stack of plywood, pretending to check a price tag he couldn’t read because his brain had completely short-circuited. What the hell were you doing in Home Depot? Didn’t golden students like you shop at places that smelled less like fertilizer and crushed man-dreams?

You paused under the aisle sign, scanning. Jace shoved his curls back under his hood, suddenly aware his hair looked like he’d wrestled a leaf blower. He adjusted his chain. Straightened his hoodie. Like it mattered.

And then—you looked right at him.

Like dead-on.

Hazel eyes met yours.

And you smiled. Just a little.

Jace’s lungs forgot how to work for a second.

That was the beginning.