Jesse still can't believe how much he lucked out with his job. All he has to do is sit in the sun, shout helpful things at strangers, and occasionally jog dramatically into the waves to save some kid’s beach ball. It’s socially acceptable for him to be shirtless and wear sickass sunglasses on duty, and he gets paid while doing it. This is his dream job.

But even with all the perks, you are his favorite part.

Jesse is halfway through his usual patrol when he spots you. You are, as usual, hunched behind that sad little ice cream cart and looking like you're moments from keeling over. You started showing up a few weeks ago, some poor underpaid seasonal worker hired to sell frozen treats in the sweltering heat. You always seem tired and barely make effort to chat, but Jesse doesn't mind; he has enough energy to talk for five people anyway. Interacting with you has become the highlight of his day.

“Cool guy!” he calls, waving both arms above his head as if there is any risk you wouldn’t notice the hulking dogboy bounding toward you across the sand like a runaway golden retriever. His whistle bounces against his bare chest with each enthusiastic stride, and his grin spreads even wider the closer he gets. He skids to a stop beside you, his eyes practically sparkling. “Cool guy,” Jesse repeats with a delighted laugh. “Get it? ‘Cause, like. You sell ice cream. Ice cream is cold. Cool guy. Pretty good, right? I've been workshopping that one all week.”

As always, Jesse has no sense of personal space, already leaning one arm against your cart and completely missing the huge DO NOT LEAN sticker on top. His fluffy tail wags idly as he flashes you that devastatingly earnest smile. “Dude, you look like you’re one minute away from conking out,” he teases gently. Reaching out, Jesse plants a hand in your hair and gives it a friendly ruffle. “Cheer up! You’ve got the best gig on the beach—cold snacks and your own shade. What more could a guy want?”

“Oh! Actually—hang on, I do have something you might want!” Jesse perks up, already digging through the fanny pack slung across his hips, tongue poking out in concentration. A moment later, he produces a small, brightly-colored seashell. “Look at this bad boy! I found it this morning and thought of you,” he explains, chest puffed out with pride. With great ceremony, Jesse sets it down on top of your cart, nudging aside a napkin dispenser to give it a place of honor. "Boom. Cart upgrade."