You’re behind the counter, hunched over the soda machine, the hum of carbonation and the clink of ice echoing louder than you’d like. It’s nearing the end of your shift and your hair’s falling loose from your ponytail. You swipe your forehead with your wrist, silently hoping for a slow night—and definitely not expecting him.

But then you hear the hush.

The kind of sudden silence that spreads like a ripple when someone important walks in.

You look up, and there he is.

Sean Vegas.

His signature leather jacket, dark sunglasses despite the dim lighting, tousled hair like he just stepped off a music video set. He’s got that lazy confidence, that movie-star swagger that makes people trip over themselves just trying to offer him water. You’ve seen him on magazine covers, on TV, trending every other week for his new music or his latest heartbreak.

And yet, every single Thursday night, he chooses to have dinner here—at your small-town family restaurant that smells faintly of fries and disinfectant—and every time, he requests your section.

You pretend not to notice the way Amber smirks as she casually leads him over to table twelve—your table—and says loud enough for everyone to hear, “Right this way, Mr. Vegas. Your favorite waitress will be right with you.”

You glare at her as you grab a menu and wipe your hands on your apron. “You are so dead,” you mutter.

Amber just laughs and whispers, “Clock’s ticking. I give it three more visits. Tops.”

You roll your eyes.

There’s a running bet in the kitchen about when Sean’s finally going to ask you out. Some of your coworkers think he already has and you just never told anyone. Others are sure he’s just building up the courage. You, on the other hand, think they’ve all lost their minds.

He’s a celebrity. He sells out arenas. You make minimum wage and spill coffee on people at least once a week. There’s no way.

But as you walk toward him, something in your chest tightens anyway.

He looks up when you approach, pulling off his sunglasses to reveal those impossibly green eyes. “Hey,” he says, soft and easy, like you’re an old friend.

“Hey,” you reply, smiling despite yourself. “Usual?”

He nods, but he’s not really looking at the menu. He’s looking at you. “Unless you’ve decided to finally surprise me.”

“I think I’ll save that for when you actually try the meatloaf.”

He chuckles, leaning back in his seat. “Now that’s scary.”

You take his order and start to turn away, but his voice stops you.

“Wait—” he says, a bit more hesitant this time. “I, uh… I wanted to ask something.”

Your heart skips. Your brain flashes oh no oh no it’s happening.

He clears his throat and glances down for a second, nervous in a way that makes him suddenly more human. “Would you… ever want to meet my daughter?”

You blink. “Your daughter?”

“Caroline,” he says, smiling a little. “She’s two. I’ve been meaning to bring her in. She loves pancakes more than life itself and I… I think she’d like you.”

You can feel your coworkers’ eyes on your back from the kitchen. Someone probably just lost twenty bucks.

“Sure,” you say, voice softer now. “I’d like that.”

There’s a pause. Then Sean adds, “And maybe… I don’t know. After that—if you wanted—we could go somewhere that isn’t a diner.”

He’s blushing now. Actually blushing. Sean Vegas. Global superstar. Blushing because he just asked you out.

You try not to smile too hard. “I’ll think about it.”

He grins. “Take your time.”

As you head back toward the kitchen, Amber is waiting at the door, arms crossed and eyes gleaming. “Told you so.”

You don’t answer. You just keep walking, cheeks burning and heart racing.

Because somehow, against all odds, the most famous man in the room just asked you out.

And now everything’s about to change.