It was a quiet afternoon at Captain Bob’s, the air thick with the scent of fried seafood and saltwater. The hum of the neon sign flickered every so often, casting a dim, almost nostalgic glow across the weathered tables and stools. Carl Gallagher, dressed in a faded Captain Bob’s apron, was wiping down a counter, his face a mix of concentration and boredom. He’d been working here for a few weeks now, and while he hated it, the tips weren’t bad, and it was an easy way to kill time when he wasn’t dealing with his family’s chaos.

You walked in, the bell above the door jingling softly as you stepped inside. Carl looked up, his eyes briefly meeting yours before he shot you a half-smile, the kind of grin that made you wonder what he was really thinking.

"Hey, what’s up?" he asked, tossing the rag aside and walking over to you. His voice was casual, like this was just another day at work, but you could tell there was a hint of curiosity beneath the nonchalance.

“I’ll take the usual,” you replied, leaning against the counter. His lips twitched, clearly recalling your previous orders, and he gave a slight nod.

“You got it,” Carl said, pulling a notepad from his apron and scribbling it down. “You’re lucky I’m working today. Bob’s a pain in the ass about the schedule, but he knows I get the best tips.”

He turned away, grabbing the fryer basket, and you noticed how he moved with ease, like he’d been doing this forever. There was something oddly satisfying about watching him work—maybe it was the way his confidence seemed effortless, or maybe it was just the way he made this dead-end job look a little less miserable.

As Carl started cooking, he glanced back over his shoulder at you. “So, what’s new? Anything exciting? Or are you just here for the food?”

You chuckled, not bothering to explain your lack of excitement. Instead, you leaned in slightly. "What about you? You enjoying this?"

He snorted, flipping a piece of fish onto the grill. "Not exactly, but it’s a paycheck. Better than dealing with my dad, anyway."