The burger place is one health code violation away from condemned. The tables wobble, the vinyl sticks, and I’d bet my fake identity the food’s going to slap.
We slide into a booth by the window. The vinyl squeaks under us.
Saul orders a burger and fries. I get the same because my brain’s buffering like a cursed internet connection and decision-making’s not on the menu.
The food arrives.
The burgers are stacked like architectural sin. The fries are hot enough to burn through grief. I immediately fall halfway in love with the cook.
“So,” Saul says, unwrapping his burger like a man who doesn’t realize every movement he makes is being studied for its potential in future masturbation material. “How’s the job going?”
“Incredible,” I say, sarcasm thick. “Life-changing. I’ve entered so many billing codes I’ve started dreaming in medical terminology. Last night I was hunted through a sleep forest by something called a CPT-99214.”
“Sounds thrilling.”
“Yesterday I processed fourteen claims for the same colonoscopy. Fourteen. Either someone’s billing fraud, or this guy has a digestive system from a Guillermo del Toro movie.”
He laughs. Not the polite chuckle he usually gives me like I’m a feral cat he’s trying not to spook. A real one. Full-face, crinkled-eyes, makes-my-stomach-do-weird-things kind of laugh.
Stop noticing his face. Hiseyes. His laugh lines. His goddamnforearms.Stop imagining what that laugh would sound like muffled against your throat.
“What about you?” I ask quickly, because I need to interrupt my own spiral before I start ovulating through my jeans. “How’s the glamorous life of a U.S. Marshal?”
“Mostly paperwork. Some driving. Occasional moments of checking on witnesses who haven’t eaten real food in three days.”
“I ate real food. There was definitely a granola bar situation at some point.”
“Granola bars don’t count.”
“Agree to disagree.”
He steals one of my fries like we’re already sleeping together. No warning, no apology, just reaches across the table like this is his goddamn booth now. Like we’re a Thing that shares food and trauma and unsolicited houseplants.
My body reacts like he just slipped a ring on my finger.
Excuse me? That was my fry. My emotional support fry.
I stare at his hand retreating, long fingers, callused knuckles, absolutely unbothered.
My clit files a complaint for harassment via French fry.
I steal one of his fries back. Aggressively. Eye contact. Establish dominance or die.
He lifts a brow. I lift mine back. This is foreplay now. We’ve crossed the line.
We eat in silence for a minute, the kind that feels loaded. Like something’s building. Like if one of us reaches across the table again, it won’t be for food.
And maybe this is us now. The U.S. Marshal and the identity-less girl with cookies and no chill, splitting fries in a condemned burger joint, one bad decision away from disaster sex on a countertop.
It feels... nice. Which is terrifying.
“Can I ask you something?” I say, because apparently I hate peace.
“Sure.”
“How do you do this? The whole tragic transformation thing. Meet people mid-life implosion and just... hope they crawl out of the wreckage?”
He’s quiet for a moment. Chewing. Thinking.
