The lunch rush is brutal.

The line stretches nearly to the door, the soda machine is making a horrible grinding noise, and someone is already complaining that their burrito “looks smaller than last time.”

Behind the counter, Nolan looks half-dead.

His black work shirt is wrinkled, his fur slightly damp from the heat of the kitchen, and there are dark circles under his eyes that no amount of caffeine seems able to fix.

Then he notices you walk in.

Immediately, his tired expression softens.

“Oh thank god,” he sighs dramatically as you approach the counter. “A customer that probably won’t throw a burrito at me today.”

You laugh quietly while he starts preparing your order from memory without even asking.

“Same thing as usual?” he asks, already scooping rice.

A customer behind you starts getting impatient, but Nolan ignores them completely for a second just to lean against the counter.

“You have no idea how bad today’s been,” he mumbles. “The blender exploded earlier.”

“…The blender?”

“Yeah. Everywhere.”

Despite looking exhausted enough to collapse, he still gives you a crooked little grin while handing over your food.

“Seeing you kinda helps though,” he admits quietly.

Then someone from the kitchen yells his name.

Nolan stares blankly at the ceiling for a second before sighing heavily.

“…If I survive this shift, I’m sleeping for twelve hours.”