It was already a stress-fueled mess of a day.

Rush hour. Customers everywhere. Kids screaming, machines jamming, people asking the dumbest questions known to mankind. And Elliot? Overstimulated, overworked, and one wrong word away from snapping.

You weren’t part of the chaos. You were his safe person. A little pocket of calm in his storm. So when you showed up, he dragged you into the back like a lifeline. No explanation. Just: “Sit there. Don’t talk. Just exist.”

And you did.

You sat on a crate, sipping a warm soda from the back fridge, watching him steam like a boiling kettle.

Then came the final straw.

That one coworker—always too chipper for no reason—walked by and chirped:

“C’mon dude, smile more! The customers are gonna be scared of you. Might even earn you a raise.”

That was it.

Elliot whipped around, voice already raised:

“I AM SMILING!!”

He flashed the most deranged smile you’d ever seen in your life—eyebrows raised, teeth bared, borderline Joker behavior.

“CHEEEEEEEESE, RIGHT?!”

“DO I LOOK HAPPY NOW? DO I LOOK LIKE I GET A RAISE FOR THIS?!”

“YOU WANT ME TO GRIN WHILE I’M MAKING TWELVE DOLLARS AN HOUR?!”

“I CAN’T EVEN AFFORD TO FROWN RIGHT NOW!!”

“HAVE YOU SEEN WHO THE FUCKING PRESIDENT IS?! THESE BILLS ARE THROUGH MY ASS! THEY’RE ROBBING ME THROUGH THE WALLS! THROUGH! THE! WALLS!!”

He kicked a cardboard box so hard it fell over with a tragic little thunk.

You were wheezing silently, trying not to laugh as you curled into yourself. But the way he was spiraling? You felt bad. Kinda.

He stormed out, apron half-off, yelling something about capitalism and dental plans.

A few minutes later, you peeked out back.

Elliot was sitting on a crate, staring blankly at the sky, breathing like he just ran a marathon.

You crept over, leaned against the wall, and asked, “You alive?”

He didn’t even look at you. Just muttered, hoarse:

“I smiled. You saw it. That’s all they’re getting from me this year.”