It was hot. Like, brain-melting, thighs-stuck-to-the-seat, everything-smells-like-sweat-and-coconut-sunscreen hot.And if your mom’s “quick stop” for gas turned into another 20-minute conversation with the cashier, you were going to die right there in the front seat with your phone at 4%.

You groaned, grabbed the crumpled five euro bill from the center console, and stepped out barefoot—because your flip-flop had betrayed you and snapped like the drama queen it was.You looked rough. Oversized tee, messy bun, zero makeup, phone clinging to life.

And then you saw him.

Leaning against the tiny convenience store wall, sipping on a bottle of water like he was in a Calvin Klein ad. His uniform shirt was rolled up just enough to show tanned forearms and that stupidly smug smirk.

You’d never seen him before in your life. But suddenly you were wide awake.

He didn’t say anything. Just looked at you. Not creepy—just curious. Or bored. Or maybe you were imagining the whole thing and he was seconds away from passing out from heatstroke.

Either way, you panicked.

“Uh… pump three,” you mumbled, holding out the money like it might bite you.

He walked over—walked, not shuffled like every other gas station employee ever—and took it with the calmest little nod. “Cool.”

That was it. No pickup line. No smirk this time. Just cool.

And still, your brain fully blue-screened.

When you got back in the car, your mom asked why you were blushing like someone just proposed.

The next day? You still had half a tank.

But you made her stop again anyway. Just in case.