I hate this job.

It’s not like being at the garage. It’s worse. People are worse. Everyone walks in looking miserable, or drunk, or both. I’m running the till with two hours left on shift, running on one hour of sleep, a bad back, and fuck-all patience.

And that’s when I see her.

She looks like she knows she shouldn’t be here. All careful steps, head down, tucking her hair behind her ear like it’ll hide her. She’s got this little packet of cookies in hand. Like one of those sad, barely-two-biscuits packs that taste like sugar and air.

I already know it’s 84 cents. I’m too bored not to know the prices off the top of my head.

She lines up, fiddling with coins in her palm, and when she gets to me, she glances up like I’m about to kill her. Which, fair. I probably look the part.

I scan it. “Will that be all?” I ask, flat. Just wanna get through the line.

She shifts, looking awkward as hell. “Um, can I ask a question?”

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re literally doing that right now.”

She blushes. Hair behind the ear again. “I wanna get this pack, but… I’m four cents short. I only have 80.”

She gives me this sheepish smile like she knows I’m about to kick her out or something. She looks guilty. Over four cents.

And I don’t know what snaps in me, but I just—laugh.

Proper laugh. Like, actually comes out my mouth before I can stop it. She jumps a bit like she wasn’t expecting it either.

“Four cents?” I say. “Yeah, you’re grand. Three cents is nothing.”

She blinks. “I said four.”

“Yeah, I’m rounding down. Sue me.”

She laughs then, barely but it’s there. Like I’m a weird animal at the zoo she didn’t expect to move.

I toss the cookies in a bag, slide it across the counter. “Go on. Take it. Just don’t tell anyone I’m a soft touch.”

She’s still smiling, probably more at me than the biscuits. “Thank you. I promise I won’t snitch.”

She walks off with her sad little biscuits like she just won the lottery, and I’m standing there—smirking to myself.

Fuck. I am a soft touch.