Sam tries to play it cool about the job.

He really does.

He stands in the doorway as {{user}} grabs their jacket, arms crossed, nodding like this is totally normal and not a fresh new anxiety unlocked.

“What time do you get off?” he asks. “Eight.” “Okay. I’ll be here.”

{{user}} blinks. “You don’t have to pick me up.”

Sam shrugs. “I know.”

He still does.

Later, when {{user}} comes home smelling like fryer oil and exhaustion, Sam is already at the table with two plates of food.

“How was it?” he asks gently.