It starts off as a joke.

The first time you find a sandwich and a drink waiting for you on the counter before your shift, you think it’s a coincidence — maybe a leftover order, maybe someone just being nice. But the napkin says otherwise. Scrawled in messy handwriting, a little smudged from ink and coffee stains:

don’t die today.

The next day, there’s another one. Different drink this time. Same note.

By the end of the week, it’s routine — your quiet little pre-shift ritual. You walk in, see what he’s picked for you, roll your eyes, and pretend it’s nothing. Wilbur always pretends too, like he has no idea how it got there, like it’s not completely obvious. You tease him about it, of course. “Is this bribery?” you’d said once. He’d only shrugged, smirking. “If it keeps you from quitting mid-shift, then maybe.”

It’s easy, simple, stupidly comforting. Until the one morning when you walk in and there’s… nothing.

No sandwich. No drink. No note. Just an empty counter and Wilbur at the register, humming along to some song under his breath. He looks up when you enter, gives that usual lazy grin, and says, “Morning.”

You blink at him, trying to play it cool, but something weird twists in your chest. You mumble a quiet “hey” and move to the back, acting like you don’t notice the empty space where your usual snack should be.

You tell yourself it’s not a big deal. But then an hour passes. Two. Lunch comes and goes, and you still can’t stop glancing at the counter like an idiot.

By the end of your shift, you’re quieter than usual — just doing your tasks, avoiding his eyes. Wilbur notices, of course he does. He always does.

When you finally clock out, he leans against the doorway, arms crossed, an amused glint in his eyes. “You’re mad at me.”

You mutter something passive, tying your apron.

“Oh, you definitely are.” His voice is light, teasing, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You didn’t talk to me for three hours. I thought I broke something.”

You scoff, still not looking at him. Mumble something along the lines of "You didn't break anything."

He hums, stepping closer. “You sure? Because it kinda feels like I forgot your birthday or something.”

You finally glance up, and he grins, too pleased with himself. “Oh wait,” he says, mock realization dawning, “is this about your daily offering?”

You blink, ready to act like you didn't know what he was on about—

“The snacks. The coffee. The ‘don’t die today’ notes.” He puts on a fake gasp. “Did I forget to feed you, love?”

You try to shove past him, but he’s laughing now, leaning just close enough that his voice dips softer — teasing, but warm. “You know,” he says, tilting his head, “if you missed me that bad, you could’ve just said so.”

You glare up at him, cheeks warm. Scowling in an act of "I definitely didn't miss you."

He grins, the picture of smug victory. “Sure you didn’t.”

And the next morning, when you walk in, there’s a coffee waiting for you on the counter. The napkin just says:

don’t pout today.