“You should go. I can finish up here.”

Mason doesn’t look at you when he says it. He’s hunched over the register drawer, fiddling with the coins, counting them too slow like he doesn’t actually care about the numbers. You know this game by now. Every time it’s your turn to close together, he drags it out. A thirty-minute lock-up somehow turns into two hours of slow sweeping, fake inventory checks, and banter that borders on something more than friendly.

He steals a glance your way, eyes catching for a second before flicking back down. His hands are trembling. You think it’s the cold. He knows it’s not.

“You’re always tired on Thursdays,” he mutters, voice casual. Like he doesn’t memorize your schedule. Like he doesn’t plan his week around these shifts. “I’ll mop. You can head out.”

But when you don’t move, his composure starts to slip. His mouth opens. Closes. Tries again.

“I just—do you ever think about us?” he asks suddenly, soft and sharp like a paper cut. “Not like, us us, I mean—not saying I want to ruin anything. I just… think about you. When you’re not here. And I don’t want this to be the only place I get to see you.”

He finally looks at you.

“I know that’s stupid. Just forget I said anything.”

But he doesn’t want you to forget. He wants you to stay.