The stack of cups goes crashing to the ground.

Nick and I bend down at the same time to pick up the cups, our faces way, way too close to each other. He seems unaffected by my presence; maybe he hasn’t been reading the same Buzzfeed lists.

“Didn’t I explicitly ban your yacht rock playlist?” he asks. “Didn’t I tell you that if you played Robbie Dupree in this shop one more time, I wouldn’t be responsible for what I’d do?”

I stand up, and so does he. “I don’t remember any of those conversations. I only remember the vague sense of dread that overcomes me as I’m forced to reckon with my own mortality every time you play the depressing music you like.”

I smile at him, back in my element: making fun of him for his god-awful taste.

Nick sighs, then gives me another one of those looks. It’s kind of a smile but kind of a frown at the same time, which is a face he’s really good at. I widen my eyes back at him.

This is the fun part, the part I love about work. I like arguing with Nick because it’s not serious (I mean, I seriously do hate the music he listens to, but I don’t actually care that much), but we both treat it like it’s life and death. I don’t even know if I’d like yacht rock half as much if I didn’t have to defend it to him every day.

To Annie, a born-and-bred rom-comaholic, our playful banter means we’re destined to be together. Because that’s what happens in rom-coms, right? Two people who can’t stand each other are actually hiding deep wells of passion, and eventually all those pent-up feelings will explode in one of those make-out scenes where shelves get knocked over and limbs are flying and people are panting.

But listen, I get angry with Siri when she willfully misunderstands me, and that doesn’t mean I should marry my phone. Sometimes people just argue and don’t want to make out with each other, because life isn’t a rom-com (unless you’re Annie and you’re marrying a literal movie star).

Nick shakes his head and points toward the back of the store. “I’ll be in my office. Think you can handle it up here?”

I gesture once more toward the mostly empty shop. Business isn’t due to pick up for another hour. “Somehow, I’ll manage.”

I lean over the counter and pull my phone out again, but between you and me . . . yes, I do look up to watch Nick walk to his office. It’s like that old saying, “I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave,” except that it’s, like, “I hate the depressing AF music you play, but I love to watch you leave because *fire emoji*.”

Although it pains me to admit it, Nick Velez is objectively good-looking. He’s tall and thin, with light brown skin, dark hair that’s not too long or too short, and the aforementioned persistent scruff on his face. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Nick clean-shaven, and I regularly see him at 5 A.M. That’s just how his face looks, apparently.