Chapter Text
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19:15, Friday, the 13th of April, 2028.
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The clunky government website sat open, a long list of apprenticeships I might have once liked sprawled down the page, each one asking to be clicked, promising change. I clicked one at random.
Entry-level IT work, easy enough – the kind an auntie might have tagged me in on Facebook, saying it's perfect, not knowing that you needed more than a vague understanding of computers and Gmail to get in.
But I couldn't fault them, not really. They were always just trying to help, and what was I doing? Feeling smug about knowing I lacked the skills needed?
What kind of attitude was that?
The listings were generous and almost fun-sounding, but I, being the idiot I was, didn’t have the A-levels required on hand. Technically, I had them accredited to my name; only I had no physical proof of them. With the page bookmarked, I searched up how to find and present them. 'Contact the board, you idiot,' it said.
But… that sounded like work, like moving forward, like waiting for emails, so I didn't. What if I did, I thought to myself, chewing a fingernail, and they didn't have them?
What if, what if, a sea of doubt and past failures surfacing.
… I closed the page.
I was early for work by a little under ten minutes; too early to clock in and get started yet too late for anything more than a quick look at the shops. There wasn’t a chance I was ordering anything – knowing our store, we were probably behind on everything except fries.
One more glance at the website, one more look at online courses.
Nothing. Again.
I checked my messenger, sent two to Brie and one to my sister and closed it.
After powering off my phone – a refurbished Android bought solely for work – I unzipped the side pocket of my backpack and slotted it in before heading over to the employee-only door.
It was thick, imposing, and more intimidating than I’d expected from fast food, but you had to be careful; you didn’t want anyone stealing nuggets. Numbly, I punched in the store password: zero, four… something something one.
Muscle memory, my beloved.
Still tired and bleary and distantly disappointed with myself, I rubbed at my eyes with the palm of my hand, stumbled my way over and into the break room, which had a pair of connected changing rooms. I exchanged nods with an employee whom I was vaguely familiar with.
Older guy, mid-fifties, maybe. When in the stall, I swapped my jumper and coat for my ever-so-slightly oversized uniform, slapped on the hat and a smile and unlocked the door.
My Christmas-gift watch read seven-thirty, so after exiting the changing room, squeezing past some of the teenage workers who really should have thought about showering or at least wearing some deodorant, I stuffed my backpack into a free locker and left the room.
My ID code was tapped into the tablet attached to the wall before I washed my hands in the open washroom, dodged a stressed cleaner and made my way into the main kitchen.
Which was, of course, already brimming with orders and curses.
Home.
Nose-scorching fryer oil, a floor my trainers stuck to and bustling workers, each of them just as pained looking as the last.
I approached Tom, the tall, blonde-haired, oddly young manager who happened to be in the building that day. “Yo, Tom,” I began, standing awkwardly to one side so as to not be in the way of those who already knew their positions. “Where do you need me? I’m on a loose shift today.”
“One sec,” he muttered, reading from a rumpled, spiral-bound notepad whilst simultaneously checking the temps on the deep fryer’s screen. “Someone’s fucked with the temps,” he said, tapping at the buttons.
I nodded, as though he could see it with his face a half-inch from the screen. A worker carrying a bag of chips approached, so I angled myself to one side. “Yeah, right...” Tom got up, his knees cracking audibly. “Go on chicken batch for me today, but don’t use this one.” He tapped the middlemost fryer with the back of a blue ballpoint pen.
“Don’t use that one, gotcha,” I repeated, and with that sorted, we wordlessly swapped positions. I looked up at the stack of trays that needed filling and held back a groan. Whoever had been before me hadn’t exactly been trying their hardest. Five fryers, one of them busted – more than double what I needed to play catch-up.
Still, like every day, I tried, my movements monotonous but precise: tray on the side, baskets down, button pressed, wait, basket to tray, tray to heater. Repeat
Tray on the side.
Baskets down.
Button pressed.
Wait.
Basket to tray.
Tray to heater.
Pause to clean the sides with a cloth and spray.
Tray on the side.
Baskets down.
Button pressed.
Wait.
Basket to tray.
Tray to heater.
Pause to grab a coke…
Tray on the side.
Baskets down.
Button press-
A violent spit of oil cracked up from the fryer, hot droplets scattering across my wrist and trailing up my forearm. For a second there was only the sound — a sharp hiss — and then the pain followed, bright and immediate.
“Fuck’s sake,” I muttered, jerking back. The basket slipped from my grip and hit the metal with a dull clang. I glanced sideways on reflex, but no one looked up.
I hurried to the bathroom, snagging tissue on the way, twisting the tap on full and shoving my arm beneath it. The skin flushed pink beneath the water, stinging harder once it wasn’t drowning in heat.
By the time I got back, the chicken had gone a shade too dark.
Sour-faced, I opened the first freezer drawer to grab fresh chicken patties, only to find we were completely out. I lingered, fingers drumming hard against the metal sides, chewing my tongue until the remaining baskets were cooked – I threw them into the heater, wiped my hands and left.
On the way back from the freezer, I caught Tom standing close to one of the higher-ups near the dry storage racks. Their voices were low but tight.
“We can’t keep pretending it’s nothing,” Tom said, tense. “Staff morale’s already shaky.”
“It’s a placement,” the other man replied, clipped. “It’s happening.”
“There’s going to be friction.”
“Then they’ll adjust.”
I didn’t slow down. Whatever it was, it wasn’t my pay grade. I wasn’t even salaried.
The deep freezer was, shockingly, freezing fucking cold.
And it took me far too long to find the nondescript cardboard box that had the extra chicken burgers, but when I did, I dragged the frost-covered plastic bag out and into the warmth of the restaurant, my hands red and sore from the cold.
Tom and the higher up were gone, but I didn’t care.
Into the drawer, into the oil.
I looked up at the clock on the wall.
I’d only been working thirty minutes.
…Focus on the future, I told myself, chest aching. One day, good job with computers; one day, good job with computers. I wiped at my arm, at the burns. One day, good job with computers.
#
After three hours that felt like six, I was granted my break.
I chucked on my black raincoat to cover the grey work shirt, hiding the hat in my back, and sat down at a table close to the front counter. The dining area was busy even as late at night as it was, with teenagers milling at the back, making a mess I just didn’t care to try and deal with.
I was on break; I was relaxing.
I didn’t care.
Nothing mattered.
Ugh, I cringed, rubbing at my face with a hand, realising how unbearable I sounded, even to myself. My number was called, and I got up, leaving my bag on the seat to grab the nuggets and Fanta. I binned the receipt, placed the tray on the counter and took my phone out to browse.
It was kind of funny, really, or maybe morbid, just how bad the world could get whilst also being completely unrelated to my own personal life. All the horrors of politics, and I would still be there, sipping Fanta and scrolling, because what could I even do?
Chicken goes in ketchup dip.
I read about how snakes controlled half the government.
I eat the chicken. I’d never met a lindwurm; most serpents stayed in their district like it was another country.
I wasn’t sure if most people had met a dragon, even with them having immigrated years ago.
Chicken.
Ketchup.
I checked if Brie had messaged. She hadn’t.
My sister did, asking if I’d hit the shops after my shift. One leg over the other, I replied.
The restaurant gradually quieted while I stared at my phone. It was the kind of quiet that felt wrong — not peaceful, just... hollow. The fryer hiss dulled in my awareness. Conversations thinned. Even the hum of the drink machine seemed distant.
I barely registered it.
Probably something outside, I thought. Police car. Loud exhaust. Teenagers being teenagers. Something unimportant.
“Hello.”
I jumped hard enough to nearly knock my drink over.
My heart leapt into my throat as I looked up, eyes wide, brain scrambling to remember how to exist around other people. For a split second, I’d genuinely forgotten that people could talk to me.
A dragon. A dragon by herself, unaccompanied, simply standing there as if it were the most normal thing in the world, and they hadn't come from a literal hole in space.
There was no fanfare to the arrival, no official coming in to check the restaurant before inviting in a dozen of them to try the latest ‘thing’, as I'd witnessed before.
I choked on my drink and, to my great shame, attracted the attention of the customers with my surprise coughing fit. It took a chest thwack to save my life, but by the time I did, everyone else was busy staring at the slate blue thing standing in the middle of the dining area, staring at me.
She looked…
Slate-blue scales caught the overhead lights in dull, matte tones. Blood-red eyes scanned the room with unsettling steadiness. Long horns curled forward and back in a shape that looked ornamental until you noticed the wear along their edges.
Scars.
So many.
Thin ones. Thick ones. Old, pale ridges crossing newer, darker marks. One large, jagged scar carved up the right side of her face, stretching from beneath her jaw to a milky, clouded eye that didn’t track quite the same as the other.
An odd fabric mask covered her lower jaw entirely, secured tight behind her webbed ears. It shifted slightly with each breath.
Wow.
Not exactly customer friendly.
“Do you… work here?”
Her voice was careful. The words deliberate, as if each syllable had to navigate around something unfamiliar.
She lifted a forepaw — missing two natural digits — and pointed with one remaining claw toward the yellow badge pinned to my chest.
“I am starting here today.” A small pause. “I think.”
"O-Oh," I stuttered. "Oh! You're a new starter?" It took a moment to stumble my way out of the seat. “Just give me a second."
“Thank you… James?”
For a split second I panicked, wondering how she knew my name, before remembering the giant badge that existed solely to prevent exactly that confusion.
"I will be over here waiting, next to this… thing." She made sure to point several times at a table. She had an accent I couldn't quite place, and there was this odd… sound to her words, as if slurring, like syllables stuck to her teeth.
I shook my head. Focus was needed.
"Yeah, just wait here," I replied, nearly bumping into an equally surprised customer as I jogged over to the employee-only door.
It took me a minute to find Tom.
He was in the break room, slouched in one of the plastic chairs, scrolling on his phone and sipping from a small Coke like it was medicine.
“Tom,” I said. “Tom, there’s—we've got a dragon. In the lobby.”
He glanced up slowly. “A dragon.”
“Yes. A dragon.” I gestured vaguely toward the front, as if that helped. “She’s sitting down. I think she’s waiting for you.”
That got him moving.
“Shit,” he muttered, shoving his phone into his pocket and grabbing a thin stack of papers off the table. “Right. Yeah. Okay. Elizabeth, hold the fort.”
The brunette beside him lifted a thumb without looking up from her meal.
I headed back out ahead of him.
She’d taken one of the larger tables and folded herself into the space with careful control – long tail tucked, wings tight, long neck curved so she didn’t loom over anyone, even with how unusually muscular she seemed. She wasn’t sprawling. She wasn’t in the way.
She was contained.
When she noticed me watching, she tilted her head slightly. Not confused; measuring. I looked away first and pretended to check my phone.
Tom arrived moments later, breathing a little harder than usual, the papers pressed flat to his chest. “Hi,” he said brightly. “You must be our new starter.”
She stood in one smooth motion, unfolding without knocking the table. Up close, the fabric mask over her lower jaw shifted slightly as she spoke.
“Yeah. That is me. Alys.” A small pause. “I am Alys. I got the computer message about tonight.”
Her voice wasn’t strange. Just… careful, like she was stepping around certain sounds. I’d seen something similar from people who weren’t totally fluent.
“Great. Brilliant. Nice to meet you.” Tom gave a quick nod. “Did you bring your uniform?”
She slipped her modified backpack off and set it gently on the table. The zips had been fitted with looped pulls, easier for claws. When she opened it, I noticed her right forepaw properly for the first time — three natural claws, dark and curved, claws sheathed. The other two were prosthetic. Metal, jointed, capped at the ends. Clean. Maintained.
Cap. Apron. Name badge.
“Good,” she said to herself, out loud. “I didn’t want to get that wrong.”
“Perfect,” Tom replied, a little too enthusiastically. “That’s perfect.”
He gestured for her to step out from the table.
“Right, so,” he began, lowering his voice slightly. “You’re quadrupedal, which means your-"
“Paws,” she supplied.
“Yeah. Your paws are on the ground most of the time, which is a little bit of a hygiene thing for us. When you’re working equipment or handling food, we need you wearing these.”
And from a bag he pulled a pair of boots.
Rubberised paw boots. The sort a dog might wear.
Alys’ head tilted so far to one side I was worried she’d bang the table.
“Another thing – In order to work here, you must be able to keep one paw raised at all times. I know you said it was manageable during the interview, but that was a week ago. Now that it’s real, can you do it?”
Tom’s tone was almost painfully gentle. Not mocking, not exactly, but careful. It caught me off guard more than the dragon had. He wasn’t cruel, but he wasn’t exactly soft either. New starters usually got brisk instructions and a look that said, 'Keep up or don’t come back.'
I glanced down at my phone out of habit more than interest.
I was late.
#
By the time I returned to my station at the deep fryer, the sense of fantasy had evaporated. The oil hissed. The heaters hummed. Orders stacked themselves in neat little lines of expectation.
And somehow, in the forty-five minutes I’d been gone, my replacement had managed to do a worse job than I ever had. The trays were a mess – half-filled, overdone, and some barely started. It looked like someone had panicked and just started pressing buttons at random.
I stared at it for a second.
Then I got to work.
Silently seething, I reset the rhythm. Basket down. Timer. Lift. Shake. Drain. Tray. Warmer. Repeat. The unfortunately familiar choreography settled back into my muscles, irritated precision replacing distraction.
Several times, Michael – my personal least favourite thing in the building – leaned around the corner of the line.
“How long on specials?”
I answered him.
Minutes later, he asked again.
“How long, an hour? Two?”
“Twenty-one seconds!” I snapped, louder than intended, shoving a tray of breaded patties into the warmer and nearly forgetting to hit the timer in the process. The beeping chorus began immediately, mechanical and accusing.
Over the noise of steam and oil, I heard Elizabeth’s voice, low and sharp, quietly telling him to knock it off.
I ignored them both.
I was a grown man. I didn’t truly care about a co-worker with the emotional development of a damp sponge. What bothered me was the disruption; the way his interruptions knocked me out of flow and forced me to double-check every timer like I suddenly couldn’t trust my own hands.
That was what annoyed me.
Not him.
As I worked through the backlog, clearing tray after tray, I finally caught sight of Alys again.
She was at the far end of the kitchen, near dry storage, standing upright on her hindlegs. Someone had spilled a drink. Coke, probably. And she was attempting to mop it up. Her tail was pressed firmly against the tiles behind her, bracing her weight, acting as a third stabiliser.
She looked… careful.
The apron they’d given her was almost comically small against the width of her chest. It tied awkwardly beneath her wings, the strings looped higher than intended. There was something absurd about it.
And yet she wore it as best she could. Unbearably earnest.
I found myself wondering; since when did dragons work minimum wage? I wasn’t exactly an expert in cross-species policy, but I’d always assumed there was government assistance. Subsidies. Integration programs. Something too well funded.
Surely they weren’t just tossed into retail and told good luck, right?
“James.”
I nearly launched a basket of chicken across the room.
Tom stood beside me, neutral expression firmly in place.
“I know she’s… unusual,” he said carefully. “But try not to stare too much, alright?”
“I’m not- I mean. Shit. Sorry.” I cleared my throat. “It’s just a bit quick. Is she actually working here now? Like, properly properly?”
He shrugged.
“It’s being reduced,” he said, tapping off one of my fryers for me as I lifted the basket. “Support payments. They’ll need jobs. Same as the rest of us.”
That settled it.
Not a visit. Not a trial shift for optics or public brownie points.
Permanent.
Some of the crew, it seemed, had already formed opinions.
The second Michael noticed the awkward way Alys held the mop — claws angled, prosthetic digits adjusting for grip — his face lit up with a kind of glee most people outgrow around sixteen.
“Careful not to scratch it,” he called loudly. “Otherwise you’ll be paying for it.”
No one laughed. A few eye rolls. A deliberate lack of engagement.
Her floppy ears swivelled toward him immediately.
“Excuse me?” she asked, glancing down at the mop head as if she’d missed some critical flaw. “I… okay. I will be careful.”
She wasn’t being sarcastic.
That was the worst part.
She was trying.
The mop handle looked slightly too narrow for her grip. The motion awkward, controlled, and overly precise. I caught myself wondering, genuinely, how dragons cleaned their homes.
Did they even have homes?
…Or caves.
The thought felt childish the moment it surfaced. She wasn’t some mountain-dwelling relic. She wasn’t even particularly large. Maybe six foot at the most. Smaller than I’d expected.
Twenty minutes later, during a rare lull in orders, I stood by the heaters, sipping from another complimentary extra-small Coke we were entitled to and noticed she was still mopping the same general area.
Slowly.
Meticulously.
Painfully.
People were staring. Some openly. Some pretending not to.
She knew it too. A faint flush darkened the scales along her cheeks, and there was a thin sheen of sweat forming along her brow ridge. The mask shifted slightly with each controlled breath. She didn’t rush. She didn’t snap.
She just kept going.
A few poorly disguised chuckles drifted from somewhere near the front.
I felt something twist unpleasantly in my chest.
I’d been there more than once — the new guy. The one people watched. The one they expected to mess up. Every minor mistake magnified. It felt, however cruel, good that someone else at last was the raised nail.
Even still, I considered walking over. Offering help. Saying something.
It took longer than it should have for me to gather the nerve.
Before I could, however, Tom stepped in.
He approached her calmly.
“It’s alright, Alys,” he said. “Let’s head over to the grill. See if Karen’s feeling generous today.”
Alys smiled, but it wavered. Thin. Tight.
“Yes. Okay.”
She returned the mop to its bucket with deliberate care and followed him, her right forepaw lifted as required. The movement forced a subtle limp into her gait — not dramatic, just present. Constant.
Maintaining that posture had to hurt.
Even from across the kitchen, I could see the tension in her withers. The effort of balance. The discipline of not letting the raised limb drift downward.
Working a grill station was exhausting at the best of times. I couldn’t imagine doing it while compensating for a missing digit, prosthetics, and a mandatory raised limb.
Ridiculous or not, dragon or not, this job drained you. It scraped at you. Hour by hour. Eventually your thoughts stopped forming properly and they just smeared into each other.
#
By the time the last rush tapered off, my brain felt like overcooked batter.
But the hours passed. They always did.
And finally, blessedly, I clocked out.
I was free.
I slotted one last tray of mayo chickens into the heater, wiped down my station until it passed for clean, and headed over to Elizabeth, who had inherited the floor when Tom vanished.
“Hey,” I said. “I’m heading out. Heaters are stocked.”
She turned, looking like she’d aged three years since lunch. “Alright. Thanks for the hard work.”
Hard work. Sure.
I muttered something polite and took the long way out, passing the grill again.
Alys was still upright, still balancing, still working through a line of patties that didn’t seem to shrink. She wasn’t fast. She wasn’t fluid. Every movement looked considered, deliberate — like she was translating instructions in her head before executing them.
She caught me looking.
I gave her a small nod, the kind that meant nothing but acknowledged existence.
She smiled back, I think. The stretch against the mask made it hard to tell.
I kept walking.
Michael was in the break room with a bag of crisps that smelt like chemical paprika. He didn’t look up when I entered and didn’t comment when I opened my locker.
I changed and checked the time.
02:09.
When I stepped out, he finally spoke.
“What do you think of the dragon?”
Just me. No one else is around.
“Why?” I asked.
He shrugged, but it wasn’t casual. “Like… why her?”
I stared at him. “Why not her?”
He didn’t answer that.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said after a moment. “It’s not exactly a competitive position. She’s got legs and didn’t burn the grill down. That’s all she needs.” I zipped my bag. “Why do you care?”
“Just wondering.”
“...Whatever, man.”
I left it there. Michael liked to float statements that sounded meaningful and then retreat before having to own them. Out in the dining area, it was quieter. A few stragglers, half-finished drinks, abandoned trays.
I sat near the middle and pulled out my phone.
A notification from my sister.
Sarah Morris.
> Can you grab me a mayo chicken on your way out? Forgot to eat.
Of course she did, borderline NEET she was.
We lived together. Which meant her poor planning eventually looped back to me.
I stood up again, walked to the counter, and grabbed one of the mayo chickens I’d just stocked. Paid the discounted price. Sat back down.
Another notification.
Brie Bednarz.
> Sorry, was sleeping x
I stared at it.
Sleeping.
It was almost impressive how often she was asleep. Mid-afternoon, early evening, random Tuesday at 3 p.m! — always sleeping. Either she had a medical condition no one had diagnosed, or I just wasn’t high on the priority list.
I typed.
> Must be nice.
Deleted it.
> You sleep a lot.
Deleted that too.
Because that was how those things went. You said something small. It turned into something bigger. Suddenly you were making it a thing. Suddenly you were insecure. Suddenly you were apologising.
In the end I sent:
> All good. Just checking.
Neutral. Mature. Non-needy.
I locked my phone before I could check if she’d read it. My jaw felt tight.
It wasn’t that she wasn’t allowed to sleep. Obviously. It was the pattern. The soft, harmless excuses that were impossible to challenge without sounding pathetic.
I told myself I didn’t care.
I cared just enough to be annoyed.
Fifteen minutes later, as I was timing my exit with the bus schedule, Alys came into the dining area.
Her bag was slung over her shoulders. Her posture had lost some of its rigid control. She looked emptied out – the particular vacancy that comes from concentrating too hard for too long.
I recognised it immediately.
Welcome to minimum wage, I thought.
She headed for the kiosks instead of the counter and lifted one paw, tapping carefully at the screen.
Nothing happened.
She tapped again.
The screen flickered, then reset to the home menu.
Her tail twitched once.
I watched.
She tried again, pressing exactly where the icon was displayed.
Still nothing.
The kiosks were infamous. You had to press slightly to the left of the button for it to register. Everyone who worked here knew it. No one bothered fixing it.
She pressed harder.
The machine lagged.
A thin line formed between her eyes.
I could have stood up then. I didn’t. Everyone had a hard time sometimes.
I told myself she’d figure it out. It wasn’t my shift. I’d clocked out. I’d already done enough unpaid emotional labour for one day.
She tried again.
The order screen flashed and dumped her back to the start.
There was a sharp scraping sound.
I looked up properly.
Her claws had unsheathed – not fully, just enough – and one dragged across the plastic casing of the kiosk in a brief, frustrated motion.
It left a mark.
Not deep. But visible.
She froze.
For a second, something raw flickered across her face. Not embarrassment. Not confusion.
Anger. Not theatrical rage. Not monster fury.
The kind that comes when you’re already tired and something small refuses to cooperate. Her chest rose once, sharply. She retracted her claws with visible effort.
A couple at a nearby table stared like they were watching a zoo exhibit.
I stood before I’d fully decided to. “Y-Yeah,” I said, stepping up beside her. “The screens are buggy.” She didn’t look at me immediately. “You’ve got to tap just to the left of the box,” I continued, leaning in slightly. “Not on it. It’s stupid.”
I demonstrated.
The item appeared instantly.
She mimicked the motion, posture relaxing. The next one worked too.
Her order was built line by line. Nine nuggets. Fries. Fanta. Large.
Same as mine.
“Oh…” she said quietly. “Okay.”
There was a beat.
Then she turned her head toward me.
“Thank you,” she said. The careful tone had returned, but there was still tension sitting underneath it. “I am… bad with machines sometimes.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “These ones are bad with everyone.”
A faint huff of something — almost a laugh — escaped her. It made me smile.
“Sorry,” she added. “Your name was…?”
“James.”
“Yes. James.” She nodded once, committing to it. “I am Alys.”
Up close, I could still see the lingering tightness around her eyes. The effort it had taken not to damage something more than plastic.
I understood that feeling.
#
The bus ride home blurred into streetlights and condensation. I watched my reflection instead of the road. I looked exactly like someone who worked over a fryer for minimum wage and called it temporary for three years straight.
By the time I let myself into the flat, it was edging toward three.
Sarah’s crutches were propped by the door. One had slipped slightly, like she’d leaned too hard getting out of them. The TV murmured in the living room.
“You get the stuff?” she called, voice thick with sleep.
“Yeah.”
“Legend.”
I took the mayo chicken into the kitchen, slid it onto a clean plate and shut the microwave door. It began its low mechanical hum. Just a minute.
I leaned against the counter and watched it turn.
The bun rotated slowly, looking faintly damp and defeated. Appropriate.
I unlocked my phone.
Messenger.
> Sorry, was sleeping x
I’d built an entire mood off that. Quietly sulked through a bus ride. Decided what it meant about me. About us. About ‘patterns’.
The microwave ticked down.
I typed before I could talk myself out of it.
> You free Monday?
Too short.
Deleted.
> Do you want to grab dinner Monday?
Sent.
There. Not clingy.
The microwave beeped. I took the burger out and handed it to Sarah. She struggled upright, blanket sliding off one shoulder.
“Legend,” she repeated, already unwrapping it.
I dropped into the armchair and tried not to stare at my phone.
It buzzed almost immediately.
> Monday works. Not much schoolwork.
> What time?
I blinked.
Works.
That was it. No hesitation. No vague maybe. Just works.
Heat crept up my neck. I’d spent the last hour nursing a quiet grievance over nothing. Imagined tone. Imagined distance. Imagined being tolerated.
She’d been asleep.
I felt stupid. Small. Dramatic in a way I’d never admit.
I typed back:
> 7?
Three dots.
> Yeah. 7’s good.
Simple. Clean. No heart emoji. No kiss. But not distant either.
Normal.
I let out a breath.
Across the room Sarah chewed thoughtfully. “You look less miserable.”
“Thanks.”
“Wasn’t a compliment.”
“Shut up.”
She grinned and went back to her burger.
I looked down at the chat again, at how easily it could have tilted either way if I’d sent something sharp. Must be nice. You sleep a lot. All the little hooks I’d almost thrown out.
God, I was exhausting.
Earlier, I’d felt weirdly pleased watching Alys struggle at the mop. Not on purpose. Just that ugly flicker of relief that someone else looked more out of place than I did.
Like it balanced the world or something.
That felt wrong now.
She’d looked so tense at the kiosk. So careful not to break anything. And I’d still waited before helping.
I rubbed at my face.
What kind of person takes comfort in someone else being more uncomfortable?
Apparently me.
My phone buzzed once more.
> Night.
I stared at it for a second, then replied:
> Night.
No overthinking. No performance.
I set the phone down and leaned back, listening to the microwave plate clink faintly in the sink as it settled.
I was happy she’d replied.
And uncomfortably aware of how quickly I’d been ready to assume the worst.
Miserable by default.
Working on it.
Maybe.