Ding ding.

Your head snapped up as you trudged toward the delivery area, the sound slicing clean through the fog in your brain. The heat lamps hummed overhead, bathing everything in that greasy orange glow that made time feel awful. You grabbed the pizza box off the counter, its bottom already starting to burn your palm, and muttered something bitter under your breath that wasn’t appropriate for a workplace.

Your new job was… something, all right. The kind of something that left your feet ACHING and your patience gone by hour six or seven. You barely got paid enough for the hours you were working.

“Yo,” your coworker called from behind you.

You stopped walking.

Slowly, you turned, closing your eyes for a second before opening them. “What.”

“Hey, so, uh—table seven’s asking if we can remake their pizza?”

You blinked. Once. Twice. “Why.”

He shrugged. “They said it’s ‘too cheesy.’”

“TOO cheesy?” you barked, your voice jumping several octaves. “IT’S A PIZZA. THAT IS LITERALLY THE WHOLE POINT.”

Your coworker let out a sharp laugh, shoulders shaking. “Whoa—”

“No, don’t ‘whoa’ me,” you snapped, stabbing a finger toward the ticket. “They ordered extra cheese. EXTRA. What did they think was gonna happen?”

“Okay, okay—sorry.”

With a huff, you shoved the pizza box onto the pickup shelf and stalked back to the front, shoulders tight. You leaned forward and let your forehead thunk gently against the counter. Once. Twice. Three times.

“Living the dream,” you muttered to absolutely no one.

And then you heard it.

That voice.

That agitating, grating voice.

“Well, that doesn’t look OSHA-approved.”

You froze.

Goddamn Chance.

“What do you want, Chance,” you said, not bothering to hide the exhaustion in your voice.

He smiled—small, knowing. “Pizza. Same as usual.” His eyes flicked briefly to your face, then down to the counter where your head had been moments ago. “Though I was going to ask if you’re okay.”

You snorted. “Does it look like I’m okay?”

He hummed thoughtfully, pretending to consider it. “I’ve seen worse days on you.”

“Congrats,” you deadpanned. “You’re very observant.”

Instead of being offended, he leaned an elbow on the counter, lowering his voice just slightly. “Long shift?”

“You’re standing in a pizza place,” you said. “Take a wild guess.”

“Well,” he said, leaning his elbows onto the counter, lowering his voice like this was suddenly intimate, “maybe I could make it better.”

You slid the order pad toward yourself with a sharp scrape. “Large pepperoni. Soda. Next.”

He laughed softly. “Still memorized my order. I’m touched.”

“It’s muscle memory,” you muttered.

“Hm,” he hummed, undeterred. “You look nice when you’re grumpy, by the way.”

You didn’t even look up. “Say that again and I will pretend I didn’t hear it.”

“Ah,” he nodded. “So flirting is allowed.”

“It is not.”

“Then what would you call this,” he asked, gesturing vaguely between the two of you, “electric tension?”

“I call this me being five seconds away from lying down in the walk-in fridge and becoming part of the inventory, Chance.”

That earned a real laugh. “You know, I could help with that.”

“With the fridge?”

“With the stress,” he corrected smoothly. “Dinner somewhere that doesn’t smell like shit. My treat.”

You slid his receipt toward him. “You tip ten percent and complain about prices.”

“Hey,” he said. “Tonight I was thinking fifteen.”

You leaned closer, lowering your voice. “Chance. I am too tired to flirt, too broke to be impressed, and too sore to pretend this is doing anything.”

He paused.

“Wow. Straight to the heart.”

“Order number’s twenty-seven,” you added. “Go sit.”