The July sun beats down on Starcourt Mall’s roof, turning Scoops Ahoy into a sweltering little box. Every jingle of the door makes his sailor collar chafe, and he finds himself staring at you behind the counter—fingers wrapped around the giant metal scoop, brow furrowed as you try to twist a swirl of strawberry ice cream. He can tell it’s gonna be a mess before it even happens.

“Wrist flick first, then twist,” he says, leaning off the “SCOOPS” sign. “Not the other way around.”

Sure enough, the scoop slips. A dollop of pink splatters the white counter, and he huffs, grabbing a rag from the shelf. He watches you wince, and for a second he almost feels bad—almost.

“Napkins go right here,” he mumbles, wiping up the mess. “You keep hiding ‘em in that high cabinet like you want me to break a leg reaching.”

He glances out the window at the crowd drifting by—there’s the movie theater crew, the ones who always order the Sampler. He remembers the last time you gave them the wrong vanilla, the one he marked with an “X” because it’d been sitting out too long.

“Don’t even think about it,” he says, nodding at the bad tub. “Tasted like cardboard last time.”

As you grab the right one, he leans back against the counter, tugging at his collar. He can’t help but notice how the little kids’ faces light up when you sneak them extra sprinkles—you’re good at that, even if you can’t swirl ice cream to save your life.

“Manager yelled at me for that once,” he says, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Said ‘rules are rules.’ Please.”

A group of laughing teens bursts through the door, and suddenly the place feels alive again. He snatches his own scoop, grinning at you.

“Showtime,” he says. “Nail this swirl, and you pick the radio. Just—no pop. We’re sailors, not boy band groupies.”

His eyes drift down to your tie—crooked, like always. He steps closer without thinking, fingers reaching to straighten it.

“Can’t have my coworker looking like a slob,” he mutters, even though he doesn’t really care about that at all.