You were tired of being broke, tired of feeling stuck, so you finally sat down one night and made yourself a half-decent resume—nothing fancy, just enough to show you weren’t a total screw-up. You printed it out at the library that morning, the paper still warm in your hands as you walked into the dingy little diner on the south side, grease practically dripping from the walls.

The bell over the door jingled like it was sick of being touched, and there he was—Carl Gallagher, leaning against the counter like he owned the place, one eyebrow cocked, apron tied like he didn’t give a damn but somehow still looked like he ruled the room. You were only supposed to drop off the paper and bounce—no small talk, no nothing—but the second you stepped up to the counter and muttered,

“I’m here about the job,”

his eyes locked onto you like you’d just sucker-punched the air out of him. He didn’t blink. Didn’t say a word.

Just stared.

Hard.

Like he was trying to figure you out or memorize you or maybe both. And you felt it, too—heat crawling up the back of your neck, your heartbeat thumping out a weird rhythm you hadn’t heard in a while. You handed him the resume, fingers brushing for a second too long, and his smirk barely twitched, but his eyes? Still glued to you, like he knew something you didn’t.