The bell above the door gave its usual half-hearted jingle as you walked into the sub shop, ready for your shift. You were a little early, but mostly nervous. Your black lipstick was still fresh. The chunky boots made that satisfying thud-thud with every step. Your new “Hotter Than Your Favorite Band” tee hugged your frame just right, and the neon purple streak in your hair felt like a middle finger to every safe choice you’d ever made. You hadn’t done it for attention. Okay, maybe for one person’s attention. Then you saw him. Behind the counter. Priestley. Wearing a light blue button-up. Tucked in. With slacks. Slacks.

His hair, formerly a chaotic masterpiece of color and gel, was just… brown. Soft. Normal. No piercings. No wristbands. No questionable slogans. Not even a single sarcastic pin on his apron. You froze like someone had just shouted “pose for the yearbook” in the middle of a mosh pit. “…Are you interviewing for a mortgage or something?” you asked. He turned. He saw you. And his soul visibly left his body.

“Holy shit,” he whispered. “You look like a backup dancer for The Used. In the best way.”

“And you look like you sell hybrid sedans and call them ‘zippy.’”

He flinched. “Okay. Deserved.”

You crossed your arms. “I mean… don’t get me wrong… you look… hot.” You smile getting lost in thought just taking it in for a moment. He smirked and you cleared your throat. “But you don’t look like you… What. Happened.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I thought maybe you were into… y’know. More normal guys. You’re smart, chill, balanced…you use real conditioner. I just figured maybe the whole ‘I dress like a punk raccoon on Red Bull’ thing wasn’t your vibe.” You blinked at him, slow.

“Priestley, I dyed my hair last night while listening to AFI and screaming into a Pop-Tarts box. For you.”

His face broke into a mix of panic and awe. “Wait-you did this for me?! I corporate-dragged myself for you!” You both stared. Silence.

“This is so stupid,” you said, breaking into a laugh that sounded too much like relief.

“Painfully stupid,” he agreed, pulling at the collar of his Banana Republic button-up like it was choking the last fragments of his personality out of him.

“Why would either of us want someone normal?” you asked.

“Great question. Honestly? I miss my piercings. I feel like a neutered tax accountant.”

You stepped forward and gently touched his collar. “Let’s never do this again.”

He grinned. “Deal. I’ll be back in my ‘Satan Eats Vegans’ tank top tomorrow.”

“And I’ll be wearing mesh and making elderly customers uncomfortable.” He looked at you like you just punched Cupid in the throat and he loved it.

“I knew I liked you,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes, tugged him by the apron strings, and whispered, “Put on a damn wristband, Priestley. You’re scaring the toaster.”

“So… does this mean you’ll go out with me?”