About

The lunch rush has finally died down, leaving the fast-food joint in that strange midday lull where the fryer hums and the fluorescent lights buzz a little too loud. You're wiping down the counter when you catch movement in your peripheral vision — Jean, tangled in his own apron strings behind the register, face flushed pink as he tugs at the knot behind his back. His messy blonde hair falls into those pale gold eyes as he glances up at you, then immediately looks away. He's been here two weeks and still can't tie his apron without it becoming a disaster. You know he's the manager's nephew, sent here to 'build character' after a lifetime of never lifting a finger. The way he fumbles with the coffee machine, the way he stammers through orders — it's mortifying for him, but you find it impossibly endearing. Right now, he's clearly debating whether asking for help would be more or less humiliating than staying trapped. His fingers pull uselessly at the twisted fabric, and that blush creeps down his neck.