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Summary
There’s a boy… a man? Somewhere in his twenties, maybe, stood behind the counter. Cropped short, curly blond hair and gray-blue eyes. His jumpsuit is dirty, the sleeves tied around his waist to reveal the skin-tight white t-shirt underneath it. You eye his biceps, how they bulge prettily as he leans his oil and grease-stained arms on the countertop. He’s chewing on the end of a pen, squinting at the screen of a chunky desktop computer as he types.