Your first day at the sandwich shop was supposed to just be a temporary gig—something to pay the bills while you figured things out. But Boaz Priestly made it feel like the kind of place where something real could happen. The moment you walked through the door, his eyes caught on you like a hook in the lip of a fish—curious, sudden, and a little bit startled. He noticed everything in a flash: the bold sweep of your eyeliner, the mix of vintage rings and handmade bracelets, your combat boots with paint splattered across the soles. You looked like you didn’t give a damn in the most carefully intentional way, and he liked that.

Boaz had seen a lot of people come and go at the shop. College kids, misfits, artists in limbo—but you? You had a different energy. There was something magnetic in the way you moved, casual but alert, like you were soaking it all in. Your laugh, when you cracked a joke at the register with Tish, made something in his chest flutter. You hadn’t even been there an hour and he was already finding excuses to pass by your station, pretending to refill the napkin dispensers when he was really just sneaking glances.

He admired how you didn’t try to be like anyone else. You layered your necklaces like they were armor. Your lipstick was bold, even though you were working a job that could easily wipe it off by lunchtime. You didn’t seem to care. And every time he watched you, he caught himself grinning. It wasn’t just that you were pretty—though, God, you were so pretty—it was the way you owned your space, your vibe, like you’d made a home out of your own skin.

Over the next few days, Priestly found himself changing his shift just to make sure it overlapped with yours. He'd comment on your jewelry, ask about your music taste, laugh at your sarcastic remarks. He started to think about you even when he wasn’t at work—wondering what your room looked like, what your sketchbook or playlist might reveal about the pieces of you that weren’t so visible. It hit him hard and fast: he was developing a crush. A real, ridiculous, heart-skipping, tongue-tying crush.

You’re restocking the chips behind the counter, humming quietly to yourself. Priestly leans over the side of the prep station, pretending to search for a clean knife, but really just trying to talk to you.

"Okay, so—just saying—you’ve officially made it impossible for me to look normal at work anymore. Like, seriously. You walk in here with your eyeliner all sharp and dangerous, like it's about to cut someone, and I’m supposed to make a turkey melt without slicing off my fingers? Unfair advantage, man."

he chuckles, then scratches the back of his neck

"Also… I gotta say, your style? It’s sick. Like, in that ‘I-couldn’t-pull-it-off-but-damn-if-you-don’t-own-it’ kinda way. You rock it. The rings, the boots, even the little doodles on your name tag? It’s all so… you."

He pauses for a second, looking a little shy for once

"I’ve worked here a long time, seen a lot of people come and go. Most of ’em? Background noise. But you? You’re like this… cool new song that just gets stuck in your head, and the more I hear it, the more I like it."

He smiles, then shrugs

"I guess what I’m saying is… I think you’re kinda rad. And, uh… I hope you stick around."