The shower was still running and the owner of the bed he was in was nowhere to be seen despite the early hour. He took it as a sign. Clearly, his late night companion hadn’t wanted to wake him. There’d been no touching, no noise, no switched on lights or coffee made. That was fine by him, he was more than happy to skip the awkward morning after, he was totally okay with that.

He gathered his clothes from around the room, stumbling on unsteady feet as he yanked on his jeans and searched for his shirt. If he was entirely truthful, he was a little disappointed. He couldn’t remember a lot from the night before but he did remember how fucking attractive he’d found you. Too pretty to ignore, because he’d wasted no time in approaching you. He’d even danced with you, something usually only reserved for his Nanna at family gatherings. Although, the way he’d moved against you had been far from appropriate.

And then the taxi ride to yours— fuck, the taxi. He’d never been kissed like that. Whatever you’d done to him had made him feel like a teenager again. He’d been rock hard the entire journey, something that not even the eyes of the driver had quelled. He hadn’t been able to keep his hands or mouth off of you, both of you half stripped before you’d made it to the bed.

Steve bit his lip, remembering it. His gaze raked over the bed he’d just left, sheets twisted and sprawled near the foot of it, a pillow hanging off one side. Yeah, shit, it had been a good night. But still, he shoved his feet into his trainers once he’d found them, patted his jeans pockets to make sure he had his keys and slipped out the apartment door just as the shower switched off.

But of all the things that had happened in the last twenty four hours, seeing your face again was definitely the wildest.

He’d found out about the linecook position from an old friend. He’d been told that The Gate was a cool place to work. Fifty hours a week, overtime available and despite the fact the boss was too cheap to give health insurance, he was apparently never on site, which meant unlimited smoke breaks in the alleyway out back. He hadn’t even needed to apply, Eddie had told his boss that Steve was a solid choice and he knew him from working at a diner back home in Indiana.

Steve had got a text from Eddie the same day, telling him to turn up at seven thirty the next morning, bring his knives and that he’d take care of the rest.

But there you were. Staring at him through the glass door before you’d opened it and then stared at him even more, eyes wide as you took him in from head to toe. You were just as pretty as you had been the night before, even if the space under your eyes were smudged with tiredness. You looked cute in your work uniform, a little black skirt with an even smaller apron tied around your waist, a white polo shirt with The Gate’s logo on the chest tucked in neatly.

Fuck. Fuck.

He was standing like an idiot, finger pointed at his own chest and mouth hanging open because you very clearly recognised him. Which, Steve realised, was absolutely okay. And understandable. Because it had only been a little over four hours since he’d been buried to the hilt inside of you and he’d have probably felt a little stung if you hadn’t remembered his face.

But you definitely worked here and Steve had no idea if you were his shift supervisor or just someone he’d have to spend a lot of time with. He knew your face, the colour of your bedroom walls, the way your name sounded on his lips when it was coloured with a moan and how you liked to be kissed on the neck when you got fucked.

That was it. That wasn’t a lot of information and he didn’t have a lot of time to process much else. An added bonus was the leftover vodka that was still coating his insides and the sun was too bright, even with his sunglasses covering his tired eyes.

And, well, he was a man.

So he dropped his hand and smiled again, a little too fake and said, “hi, I’m here for the kitchen position. I’m Steve, nice to meet you.”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Was he fucking kidding?

You stared at Steve with an expression of complete disbelief, the audacity of his words taking over from your shock at seeing him there. You couldn’t really see his eyes behind his sunglasses but he was smiling, warm and polite and suddenly you realised that you hadn’t said anything else for a minute now.

It turned out you couldn’t say much, but you managed to close your open mouth and smile back, awkward and polite, much like every other interaction at work. You gestured to the open door as you held it open, hating that you recognised the aftershave as he walked by you, silently furious that he was wearing the same one he’d worn when he’d approached you the night before.

What did he mean, ‘nice to meet you?’

Did you look that different? Did he seriously not recognise you?

You wanted to ask, you wanted to confront him. Your hangover made you mean, it made you square up for an argument that could never happen here because Eddie was coming out of the kitchen with a wide, easy smile on his face just as Steve pulled his sunglasses from his face.

“Harrington! Long time no see man, how you doin’?” He clapped the new guy on the shoulder before bringing him into a full hug, laughing as they jostled each other in the way only guys did. “Welcome to the city, big boy, it’s good to have you.”

Steve replied with something you didn’t hear because you were too busy staring, completely unashamed, at the side of his face. It was definitely the same guy. He had the same moles and freckles dotted across his skin, the same messy hair that curled under his ears and at the nape of his neck. And there was a hickey in the shape of your lips just under his jaw, a mark you remembered gifting him in your tiny hallway, right when he’d backed you into the wall and slid one large hand into the front of your underwear.

Someone was calling your name. Repeatedly.

“What?” You blinked, finding Eddie and Steve both watching you as you felt the heat of being caught creep up the back of your neck. “Sorry, I— sorry. Hangover.” You said as a way of explanation.

“This is Steve Harrington,” Eddie took Steve by the shoulders, giving him a little excited shake. “An old friend from back in Hawkins. We worked together at Jim’s old diner, I taught him everything I know, didn’t I? Steve this is—”

You didn’t listen to Eddie's introduction to you, you just watched as Steve nodded and smiled, polite as ever, eyes skating over you as if he was seeing you for the first time. His gaze lingered on the open buttons of your polo shirt, staring at the skin that had been marked by someone’s else’s lips - his fucking lips.

He didn’t say anything. He just looked back at Eddie laughing at something he said before he was introduced to Robin and Argyle too.

You spend too much time standing in Hopper’s office after that, your sore head pressed against the cool wall of the big ass metal safe he insisted on keeping beside the computer that was from the nineties. You felt like you were going crazy, like you’d only dreamed of getting absolutely railed by the hot new guy who was now in the kitchen, being shown the freezer and the pantry.

But the thump of your head and the ache between your thighs told you otherwise, and Jesus Christ, you tugged at your neckline, hiding the hickey there. It was him, right? It was definitely him. He was holding the same sweater he’d been wearing the night before. You’d tugged it off of him, you had stepped over it on your way to shower just hours before. How was he just acting like he didn’t—

The door to the office opened and when Steve stepped inside with you, it became infinitely smaller. It closed with a click behind him, the low lamp on Hop’s table making the already grey-blue walls look darker and moodier. Steve leaned against the wood and for a second or two, you both only stared at each other, as if remembering what the other looked like naked. You could recall the mole on his left shoulder, right beside the space you’d sunk your teeth into when he’d called you a good girl, the scratches you’d left on his back when he’d told you to ride him harder.

“Eddie said you know where I can find some whites?”

His sunglasses were in his back pocket now, his face the same one you’d invited back yours. There was zero doubt about it. His gaze was fixed on your own, a game of chicken neither one of you was willing to lose until— Steve’s eyes dropped.

A glance that turned into more, a heated look that lingered from where it started on your bare legs, drifting upupup over your hips and chest. His eyes met yours once more, but still, he didn’t say a damn thing.

Fuck it.

“Do we know each other?” Your voice was a lot more blunt than you intended it to be, but working at seven am with a hangover did that to a person. Your face was blank, neutral, at least you hoped.

Steve took his time to ponder it, face just as expressionless as your own before he shrugged, lips turned down. “Nope. Don’t think so.”

You stared at him. He stared back.

“Uniform is down by the bar,” you finally conceded, voice sharper than a chef knife. Cutting, only dulled slightly by a chipped ego. You didn’t know what the fuck you were supposed to say, but your pride was finding that swallowing the words down harder than a dry pill.

But what were you supposed to say? We fucked last night? You were in my bed this morning? Loved it when you went down on me, by the way, welcome to the team?

You didn’t say any of that, of course you didn’t. You did, however, knock your shoulder into Steve’s when you made for the door. He didn’t say a thing, but he did follow you. Too closely, and you could smell his aftershave, the same one from the night before. He followed you back to the kitchen, new chef whites in hand after he’d grabbed them from the bar and the room was already too busy to talk quietly.

The grills were aggressively noisy, sparks of hot oil landing on the tiles behind it, Eddie’s speaker playing music too loudly. Argyle was hammering fillets of chicken breasts with a wooden mallet as he prepped for lunch and you decided to very much not look at Steve as you spoke.

“Pantry door sticks a little, freezer temp jumps sometimes so let Eddie know if things start melting. There’s a set of knives in that second drawer over there and no opened toed shoes in the kitchen - you’d think that would be common sense but nobody told Argyle, apparently.”

Steve suppressed a smile and nodded. “Got it.”

“Hopper’s barely here so ask Eddie for anything you need, wages go out the last Friday of every month, deliveries come at six on Monday mornings and you want any of the wait staff’s help, you ask nicely. No one yells at my girls.”

You turned then, waiting for another agreement, eyebrows raised.

Steve let his eyes roam over you, his lips curving. “Right,” he said.

You felt yourself boil over at the sight of his smile, at the way his hair flopped in his eyes and you hated that you suddenly remembered yourself brushing it out of the way when you were kissing him hours before, your knees hitched at his waist, pressed into your own bed. “If you need a first aid box, you’ll have to buy one and try not to sleep with any other staff members before lunch.”

The kitchen halted to a screeching stop at that. Eddie’s spatula stopped half way to the pan and Argyle’s mallet tumbled out of his hand. Both men stared at you, their eyes flitting to each other and then to Steve, whose cheeks were pink from more than just the warm air. If anyone was planning on saying anything to you in return, they were too late.

You were storming out, hands slamming onto the door so hard it hit the wall behind it. “Welcome to The Gate,” you yelled over your shoulder, just as Robin was unlocking the front door and the first of the regulars poured in for their morning coffee.

It was going to be a long fucking shift.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Eddie let out a long, low whistle. “Dude. It’s been ten minutes. The fuck did you do?”

Steve was still staring at the swinging door, long after you’d disappeared from sight. He groaned, rubbing at the back of his neck that was prickling with an uncomfortable, embarrassed heat.

“Something bad, I think.”

Eddie appeared at his side, eyes glittering with amusement. “You know her, man?” He dug an elbow into Steve’s ribs, a gasp leaving his lips when Steve opened his mouth and didn’t respond. “Oh shit, you two totally banged.”

Steve still didn’t reply, instead, tugging on his chef’s jacket over his shirt, head bent and eyes avoiding Eddie and Argyle, who was back to filleting chicken and definitely listening in

“Dude, when?” Eddie was beside himself now, his grin too big and too happy at Steve’s miserable situation. “Did you not call her back or somethin’? I mean, you’d be crazy not to - I’ve been flirting with the girl for over a year now and she won’t crack—”

“Last night,” Steve was leaning over a butcher's block, his hands in his face as he regretted every single action he’d taken since he opened his eyes that morning. “Well, technically this morning. Like, five hours ago.”

Argyle dropped the premise of pretending to not listen. He snorted, looking over Steve with a mixture of awe and disbelief. “Oh you’re so screwed, Eddie’s friend. Why you out here actin’ like you don’t know the lady?”

Steve scrambled for words, his hands gesturing helplessly to the closed door, out to where he couldn’t see you. “I— I don’t know, okay? I panicked. I woke up this morning and she was gone! I didn’t know she worked here! I thought— I thought it might have been easier to just pretend it didn’t happen, that we didn’t know each other.”

Eddie was staring, his features set in an unimpressed mask. “Jesus, Harrington, that’s so fucking dumb, even for you.”

“I know, okay!” Steve snapped and then crumbled once more. “Fuck, I was standing at the door and I don’t know, I thought she might have been my fucking boss or something, I don’t know how to be professional when it’s been in the fucking morning, I’m probably not legal to drive yet and my dick is still half hard from how many times she ro—”

The door swung open and Robin appeared. “There’s four people wanting to know where their bagels are, why isn’t anyone taking tickets? Eddie, what the fuck?” She gestured to where there was a trail of receipts hanging on the rack by the kitchen window and sure enough there were tables filling up, groggy eyed customers all waiting for breakfast.

Steve spotted you through the open hatch, your back to him as you took another order from a table taken by a tired looking dad and his three kids. There was already spilled salt on the wooden surface, an iPad blaring on the bench seat and despite the way he could hear you speaking pleasantly, your foot had set an impatient beat on the tiled floor.

He didn’t take his eyes off of you when you turned and walked towards the kitchen, heading for the hatch with your order in hand - he couldn’t. Steve was staring - blatantly. And for a second, maybe two, you looked back with just the same intensity, like you were sharing the same memory, both of you remembering the way the other had moaned their name, the way the bed had creaked and groaned with every stroke of Steve’s hips. Like you were thinking of doing it again, like neither of you would’ve minded a repeat in the back office, crushing each other against the lockers or on top of Hopper’s empty desk.

But then you reached the hatch and your gaze hardened. You slammed the order down with a sharp hand and when you lifted it, your middle finger saluted Steve before you walked away once more.

You tried not to audibly groan as your feet found the floor. The body asleep next to you was lying on his front, his face buried into one of your pillows, his arms wrapped around it like it tried to run away in the night. He was tanned and dotted with freckles, a summer scene across the skin on his back, broad and taut with muscle. You frowned as you looked over your shoulder at him, trying to place a name, a face, any memory of the last few hours.

The only things that came to mind were bare skin and a lot of touching. Teeth and lips and hands and calloused fingers that dug into your hips as you rode him. You rubbed your face, clearing the sleep from your eyes, the tequila and the taste of sex from your lips.

You tried really hard to walk quietly to your bathroom, padding softly across the wooden floors, avoiding the sweater that lay there and the board that you knew squeaked like it held a disease in its whorls and knots. The bathroom door shut with a squeak and a click and you held your breath, forehead braced against the cool wood but you heard nothing, no sheets rustling, no feet on the floorboards.

Your reflection stared back at you from above the sink with disdain and disappointment and you weren't in a position to disagree with her. Your hair was a mess and there was leftover lipstick on your neck of all places, like you’d gifted it to someone who’d pressed it right back onto your skin. There was the beginning of a hickey on your chest, purple and pink and blooming under the bright fluorescent light that hummed above you.

The shower started with a groan and a hiss, the pressure battering the floor of the tub and you shed what little clothes you had on before clambering into it, skin prickling at the chill before it rocketed to almost too hot. You hit the temperature dial with an annoyed indifference, hiding under the cool spray until your hair stuck to your head and it didn't hurt as much as it did when you first opened your eyes.

You thought back to the night before, eyes closed, your stomach starting to turn with tequila and vodka and cheap beer. You remembered the sticky floors of the new bar you’d been dragged to, nothing more than a basement room filled with sweaty bodies and with brick walls covered in band posters and beer mats from places around the world. There were more people than tables and an oversized disco ball turned slowly overhead, entirely out of place as some indie sleaze song leaked out from the speakers in every corner.

You’d danced with your friends, nothing more than your hips moving in the crush of bodies, skin on skin as you tried to take shots without it spilling over your fingers. You remembered licking raspberry syrup from your thumb, your eyes on a guy who stood across the room from you, his brows raised when you grinned.

You remembered a song passing, maybe two, before he came over. There hadn’t been any bravado, no cheesy lines, no faux nonchalance. He’d bent down to your ear, a large warm hand hovering over the small of your back as he leaned into you. Someone had bumped him, his lips brushing your ear and he’d told you that you were pretty.

You’d grinned, shyness disappearing under the taste of tequila and when he’d asked you to dance you’d handed your empty glass to your friend and took his hand. It got blurry then, his hips against your ass as he moved to the music, moved against you. His hands, warm and big, laying on your hips, fingers settling into the crease of your upper thigh until you were too warm and the only answer was to pull him outside for some air.

He’d tasted like beer when he kissed you, your back against the rough brick outside of the bar. But his hand had cupped the back of your head to save it from becoming sore and that alone had you arching into him, his free hand around the back of your thigh as you hitched your leg to his hip. There must’ve been a taxi ride to yours and there was a fuzzy memory of your couch, the man pressed into it as you shed your shirt and straddled him, his lips dancing across your throat, your sternum.

You stayed under the spray until the water turned too cold and your head felt less like someone had jumped on it. Your hair was clean and your face had been scrubbed, your toes minty fresh as you spat leftover toothpaste down the tub drain and when you got out, wrapped in a too small towel, your bed was empty.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

You didn’t think too much of the man. You tried not to. But when you’d finally gotten dressed and shuffled along the sidewalk in the town that’s finally waking up, you found yourself thinking about the night before more often than you wanted to.

You told yourself it was a good thing he left when he did. The perfect way to avoid the awkward morning after, the stilted conversation of if they wanted coffee and exchanging numbers no one was ever really planning on calling.

Right?

Right.

The subway was packed, uncomfortable and sticky hot, like honey on your skin. There was a woman pressed too close to your side, both of you clinging on to the same handrail, her gum snapping too sharp and obnoxious by your ear. There was a kid crying about a broken toy two carriage’s down and every time the doors opened, the shrill noise of it all cut you in two. You were way more hungover than you’d let yourself believe, hiding shamelessly behind a pair of oversized sunglasses that turned the bright morning sun and the flickering overhead fluorescents into a shade of grey that was much more manageable.

It suited your mood. It dulled the flavour of tequila that sat at the back of your tongue. But it didn’t dampen the memories of last night that were coming back to you, persistently stronger and less blurry than before.

You could remember getting out of the cab, the air still heavy and hot despite the early morning hour, the only way a night could be in Chicago during summer. There were memories of you dragging the boy behind you, your hand clasped in his as you fumbled at the door of your apartment building, pressing the wrong numbers for your key code, eyes fluttering closed as the stranger pushed his nose to your neck, his lips following the path he made. Then there was the stairwell, blessedly empty, the air much cooler and the brick wall rough as you were pressed against it on the first landing. More kissing, the dirty kind with all tongues and teeth, breaths panted into open mouths, hands tugging at the fronts of belts, sneaking under skirts, fingers pressed to cotton and lace.

The train jerked on the tracks and you stumbled, so unlike yourself and the thoughts of your late night guest gave way to the packed train once more. You didn’t think about him between your legs, you didn’t think about your hands in his hair - brown and messy and almost too long - and you definitely didn’t think about the way he moaned as loud as you did when you came on his tongue.

Elbows pressed into your sides as you pushed your way off the carriage, the train doors beeping, humid subway air giving way to something only a little fresher as you climbed the concrete steps and out into the street. Chicago was louder here, closer to The Loop now, you had to dodge others on the sidewalk, everyone with some form of earphones in, their heads down, their eyes low. Trucks were parked too close to the sidewalk, men with cigarettes hanging out their mouths yelled at each other as they passed crates of vegetables and fruit to each other, corner store owners filling their shelves and somehow, the streets smelled like freshly baked bread, roasted coffee and sewers all at the same time.

It did nothing to help your hangover. Neither did the ache in your hips that had you remembering how you’d been pressed into your mattress only hours before, skin slapping skin, gasps and moans floating in the air.

Your face burned with it.

It only cooled when you made a sharp left, narrowly avoiding a young couple trying to manipulate a too large couch from the back of a moving van into their narrow doorway. The alleyway turned the sky duller, the sun hidden from view as you walked between the two tall buildings, avoiding leftover puddles and rat traps before you raised your fist to an old fire door and knocked.

Knock was perhaps too polite. You let your palm slam down on the rust covered surface, the tiny pane of glass that acted as a window rattling at your efforts. The sound reverberated through the alley, loud enough to piss off the neighbours in the apartments above you and someone leaned out their window, half asleep and swearing viciously.

But the door was kicked open and the smell of cinnamon and bacon greeted you. The air was hotter than ever, the hum of the ovens adding to the warmth and the too loud sound of the back kitchen. Everything was silver and white and coated in a fine layer of icing sugar and flour and god, ew, a little bit of fryer grease. Someone’s Bluetooth speaker was blasting music that was too loud but it still didn’t drown out the drone of the extractor fans, the bubble and pop of the bagels in an enormous vat of boiling water.

The Gate was something of a hole in the wall, not quite a cafe, not quite a restaurant and not a place you usually saw tourists. It was on the right line of cheap, a little rough around the edges but the food was the best you could find this side of the Chicago River. It was all brick walls and a huge glass front, neon lights shining out of it every hour of the day and night. Chipped green and white tiles on the floor, wobbly legged tables and chairs that didn’t quite match anymore, The Gate was owned by a man called Jim Hopper but it was run by the rest of the staff he’d hired.

A group of people who were all in the middle of that age bracket between teenagers and adults, a bunch of somewhat misfits who were collectively in the stage of life where no one knew what the fuck they were doing and smoke breaks took precedence over bussing tables.

A guy called Eddie manned one of the grills you passed by, a cig tucked behind his ear and his dark curls pulled high into a bun atop his head. A sketch pad of tattoos peeked out from his chef whites and he merely lifted a spatula at you in greeting, a pair of headphones covering his ears as he flipped pancakes on the griddle and blocked out the pop song that came from the speaker by the prep zone.

There were Robin and Argyle, both sitting haphazardly on stools that had been dragged from the bar, peeling a variety of vegetables as they both shared details of the night before, both nursing the same kind of hangover you suffered from. The front of house looked quiet, no other staff at work just yet. The doors were still closed and the neon sign on the front flickered a garish pink as it told the rest of the city The Gate was still closed for now. The small bar in the corner was wiped clean, no sticky leftover gin or rum staining the wooden worktop and the various glass bottles on the glass shelves behind it were glinting in the morning light. There were crystals on the windowsills, more hanging in the corners of the room from wicker baskets and mosaic pots, all of them holding bundles of green, leafy plants. They scattered rainbows of all sizes around the restaurant, painted little rectangular sponges of colours on the tables, the brick walls, your arms and the tiled floor.

You sighed as you hung up your bag, swapping it for an apron that you tied around your waist. Breakfast shift was never your favourite, but you hoped that everyone decided the day was too warm and everyone was too hungover to bother venturing out this early. You looked at the clock, twelve minutes to seven. Seventy two minutes until the doors and you still didn’t deem that enough time to feel human.

You stuffed a new order pad into your apron pocket, reminding yourself to hunt for a pen as soon as you managed to snag some pancakes or a bagel from the kitchen first. Jim said he didn’t believe in technology, not to the point of tablets replacing a good old pad and pen for taking orders, but you were pretty certain that the man was just fucking cheap.

Minutes passed as you stood in the middle of the tables, your head tipped back as you closed your eyes and took a breath. And another. And another. Kaleidoscopes of colours painted your cheeks, your eyelids and you could hear the speaker from the kitchen playing faintly through the closed door. Suddenly it was five hours ago and you were on the edge of a dance floor you’d never been on before, a body pressed against the back of your own as you both swayed and rocked to the music. The cab drive to yours became clearer now, your head tipped against the window as you let your dance partner kiss down your neck, his hand skating up the fabric of your skirt as he gripped your hip. You remembered the cab driver's eyes in the rear view mirror, the sharp cough he let out when you grabbed your new friend’s jaw in your hand and licked into his mouth.

“Get ‘em while they’re hot.” The clatter of a plate and Eddie’s too loud voice broke you from your thoughts.

Cheeks burning and heart thumping a little too wildly, you spun, eyes flying open as you found a stack of pancakes waiting on the bartop for you. They’re dusted with sugar and dripping with maple syrup, a handful of freshly washed berries on the side. You moaned, the man who shared your bed momentarily forgotten about, and you contemplated giving Eddie a fat kiss on the cheek.

“You’re an angel,” you told him instead, forgoing cutlery as you bit straight into a pancake, eyes fluttering at the sweetness and warmth. “A real life angel.”

The chef snorted, already walking back into the kitchen. “Call my high school principal and tell him that, would ya?”

You managed two whole bites before the phone rang and Robin answered it, her voice bored and tired and muffled under the noise of music and hissing grills. Then the door flew open and she handed the receiver to you, eyes rolling. She pinched a strawberry and poked at your bare skin, where your blooming hickey bruised the space between the top of your shirt and your exposed collar bones.

You batted at her hand, frowning when she smirks and your lips were sticky with maple syrup when you tried to form a professional greeting. “Good morning, thanks for calling The Gate, this is— oh, it’s you.”

Hopper scoffed on the other end of the line. “Hello to you too, kid. Listen, there’s a new start coming today for the linecook position. Should be ‘round seven thirty and he’s more than qualified so just get him some spare whites and show him where the trash goes. Eddie’ll handle the rest.”

Your hangover pulsed in annoyance. “Can’t Joyce get him sorted?” You speared another raspberry and popped it into your mouth, eyes rolling when your boss sighed in return.

“Joyce is on vacation. With me. We told you this on Monday, you never lis— look, just get the guy sorted alright? He’s a good kid, he’s not gonna cause any hassle.”

“Whatever, sure,” you mumbled. You needed to find some tylenol, your eyes felt like they were going to fall out of their sockets. “Enjoy Cabo, or wherever it is you guys are.”

“We’re in Colorado, but close enough,” Hopper grunted. “Just don’t burn the place down, alright? See you in two weeks.”

You were frowning when the dial tone buzzed in your ear. It was three minutes past seven and you were left with a sticky, sugary mess on your empty plate and thirty three tables to set before the doors opened. And a new start to get set up.

You found a tylenol in Nancy’s open locker and a set of new chef whites in Hopper’s abandoned office. You set them by the side of the bar before you gathered cutlery and new napkins, splitting them with Robin as you both wove in and out of tables and booths, the kitchen getting noisier as Argyle and Eddie started prepping for lunch. The glass cabinets by the cash desk were filled finally with fresh pastries, the front of house smelled like freshly squeezed oranges and you had made yourself busy by misting an oversized fern when someone knocked on the front door.

There was a man standing behind the glass. He was tall and dressed in denim jeans that had faded knees, a white T-shirt with rolled sleeves and he had a pair of black Ray-Ban’s perched on his nose. Despite that, you recognised him. His hair looked ruffled, like someone had been pulling on it all night, dishevelled and messy in a way that would’ve made your mother’s cheeks burn. Any mother’s, actually.

Fuck.

No? No.

You unlocked the door and the click of it was too loud, too jarring. You stared at the stranger who didn’t seem all that strange and your stomach turned as you recognised the sweater he had clutched in his right hand. A forest green thing with a yellow patch on the chest. You knew that sweater. It had been on your bedroom floor when you’d made your quiet escape to the bathroom.

Fuck.

You looked at the man and he looked at you, the customer service smile he’d plastered on his face wilting at the same time his extended hand did, the professional greeting slipping from every fibre of him.

“You.”