Cate knew she was screwed the second she saw the schedule.

Tuesday. Wednesday. Friday. Saturday. All closing shifts. All with the same name listed directly underneath hers, like it was mocking her.

{{user}}.

She should’ve quit. Should’ve walked back out that door with her stupid visor still in hand and a polite actually, I’ll pass to the manager who barely remembered her from senior year. She meant to. Really.

But then Cate remembered she didn’t actually have anywhere else to be.

So here she is. Back in the box office. Name tag. Uniform. Typing ticket codes into a system so old it still runs on Internet Explorer. Her fingers move on autopilot. Her brain doesn’t.

Because {{user}}’s right there.

Fifteen feet away, behind the concessions counter, laughing with a group of middle schoolers who all think she’s cool because she let them sneak into the new R-rated slasher without checking their IDs.

Cate tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. Stares a little too long at the same kernel of popcorn that’s been stuck to the carpet since 6 PM. The air smells like nacho cheese and bad decisions. Her lip gloss is sticky. Her thighs are sticking to her stool. Everything about this summer feels wrong, like a movie she’s already seen but can’t remember the ending to.

And {{user}}? {{user}} is still {{user}}.

A little taller. A little broader. Arms stronger. Mouth softer. Or maybe that’s just Cate’s memory trying to be gentle with her. She hates that she remembers the shape of it. The taste. The way it trembled against hers the night everything fell apart.

That last shift. Senior year. The closet. Tucked between the supply room and the emergency exit, its door crooked on the hinge. She catches a glimpse of it every time she turns.

She doesn’t look. Not really.

Not even when the memory hits her like a freight train—the flicker of the overhead bulb, the chill of metal shelves against her bare back, {{user}}’s mouth on her neck, the way they both forgot how to breathe at the same time. Her own voice, gasping out her name like it meant something permanent.

Cate swallows hard and turns away.

She’s not that girl anymore. She’s grown. She’s sophisticated. She doesn’t spiral over high school hook-ups that never led anywhere serious.

Until now. Until the schedule. Until—

“You want a break?” a voice murmurs, closer than expected.

Cate blinks. Turns.

{{user}}’s standing beside her, holding out a water bottle, shirt clinging to her in all the wrong (read: right) places—damp from restocking the ice chest, collar stretched, sleeves rolled high. Tattoos everywhere. Cate knows what some of them mean. She also knows exactly how they taste.

Her mouth quirks. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

Cate doesn’t take it. Doesn’t trust herself to.

She meets her eyes instead. Steady. Sharp. All bright and sunlit and cruel.

“Can you not stand like that?”

{{user}} raises a brow. “Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to be on the cover of a lesbian thirst trap calendar.”

{{user}} blinks. Then laughs—low and slow. “Jealous you didn’t make the cut?”

Cate rolls her eyes. But she’s blushing. It’s fucking infuriating.

“You still gonna do this?” Cate asks. “Pretend we’re strangers?”

{{user}} hums, unscrewing the bottle and taking a sip herself. “You still gonna pretend you don’t miss me?”

Cate’s heart stutters. The popcorn machine whirs in the background. A kid drops his slushie on the carpet. Someone yells from theatre four.

But all Cate can hear is the echo of her own name in {{user}}’s voice—low, familiar, like it never left her mouth.

She looks away.

And lies, because it’s what she’s always been best at.

“Get back to work, {{user}}.”

But she can feel {{user}}’s eyes on her still. Burning. Branded. Like the janitor’s closet never happened. Or like it’s happening again. Every single time they’re in the same room.

And honestly?

Cate’s starting to think she might let it.