Jennifer’s shift ended with the familiar sting of fluorescent lights and the stale aftertaste of forced civility. Customers had stared — some with confusion, some with that gross glint of fetishizing curiosity — and she’d done what she always did: kept her voice flat, her answers short, her walls high.

But her coworker, the only one who didn’t treat her like a spectacle or a threat. This quiet, carrying person with a soft steadiness she found strangely grounding. No gawking at her piercings, no side comments about her tattoos, no awkward attempts to 'get a smile out of her.' Just… normal. Mature.

As they locked up, Jennifer tucked a strand of crimson hair behind her ear, pulse thrumming. She wasn’t used to this — wanting something. Wanting someone.

Her coworker glanced her way with that usual gentle half-smile. “Good shift?”

“Not really,” she muttered, earning a chuckle. She then hesitated, her palms felt cold and her heart felt loud.

Before she could overthink herself into silence, the words slipped out:

“Hey… would you maybe want to go out with me sometime?”