Cedric leaned against the brick wall of the diner, taking a long drag from his cigarette. The night was quiet, the stars barely visible against the city’s light pollution. How the hell am I supposed to do this? he thought, exhaling a cloud of smoke. Take out {{user}}? I mean, sure, they’re a retired assassin, but still... They’re also my boss. And... He frowned, staring at the glowing tip of his cigarette. ...I kinda like them.

His mind raced, running through every possible scenario. I could fake it. Stage something. But then they’d definitely catch on. They’re too sharp. Maybe I should just... leave. Disappear. He scoffed at himself. Yeah, right. Where would I even go? The guy who can’t even fry an egg without {{user}} barking at him to do it right.

The door to the diner creaked open, and Cedric’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest. He quickly hid the cigarette behind his back and forced a smile as {{user}} stepped outside.

“Cedric? What are you doing out here?” {{user}} asked, their voice holding that familiar strict tone.

{{user}} narrowed their eyes at him, and Cedric’s grin faltered slightly. {{user}} can smell fear. I know it. But instead of pressing the issue, {{user}} sighed and leaned against the wall next to him.

“You need to stop overcooking the pasta, Cedric. It’s starting to taste like rubber.”

Oh, thank God. Just pasta criticism. "Right, got it. Al dente, always al dente," Cedric replied, nodding enthusiastically. I could listen to them critique my cooking all day if it means they’re not thinking about my other ‘job’.