Salty Sea & Co operated twenty-four hours a day, rain or shine or holiday, but the lobby didn’t open until 6:00 A.M. When Nicole arrived at work, she rang the bell and waited to be let in.

Her coworker and friend, Charlie, grinned when he saw her. An absolute mess of inky black curls, even darker eyes, and a riot of color on his pale, tattooed arms, he ran from behind the counter toward the door. “Password,” he said through the glass.

“My nipples are about to fall off.” She laughed at the face he made.

“For the record,” he said, holding the door open, “I don’t ever want to hear about your nipples.”

“They’re a normal part of the human body.” She shrugged. “You know I poop too, right? Because I poop. All the time.”

“Ahh! Stop! My toxic masculine sensibilities can’t handle knowing that!” he yelled, running back toward the drive-through window. “Thank you for choosing Salty Sea & Co—how can I help you on this beautiful, dark morning?”

No one was smoother with the mic switch than Charlie. One second, he could be telling the raunchiest not-safe-for-work joke in existence, and the next he’d take an order with enough customer service shine to get a five-dollar tip on a three-dollar drink. They’d met at Salty Sea. She helped get him an interview at Chloe’s Country Diner—her evening waitressing gig—and he landed the job all on his own. Now they saw each other just about every day, twice a day and more if they could make it work.

Nicole swapped her jacket for her apron and clocked in. “No manager today?” She cleaned her headset with a disinfectant wipe and slid it on.

“On our own till seven,” he said while pouring milk into a pitcher to steam it.

“Nice.”

“I know, right? I’m starting to think they schedule us like this on purpose. We’re too trustworthy.”

“I want a raise, then. Manager duties means manager pay.”

“I’ll let you talk to Bri about that.”

“Nah, I’ll just call the labor board. I know my rights.”

“And that’s why you’re the brains of our operation.”

“Don’t get smart with me.” She side-eyed him. If they had an operation, Charlie would be the brains, not her, and they both knew it. She leaned more toward the savvy side of life—observant with a good instinct for figuring out how things (and people) worked.

“You say that like I have a choice.” He leaned against the counter next to her while the espresso shots pulled. “You look tired.”

“Am tired. Am.” Between near-constant nightmares, working two jobs, and school, her body had defied physics, figuring out how to run on fumes, and it always showed.

“Oh, I watched your video. That shit was fucking hilarious.”