Chapter 1 #2
The break area is a joke of a name. It’s a narrow hallway with two plastic chairs and a wobbly table pushed against the wall.
The employee bathroom opens off one end and a supply closet off the other.
Cigarette residue clings to the space, despite the prohibition on smoking inside.
Old notices curl on a bulletin board, their messages faded into irrelevance.
I wash my hands in the bathroom sink, scrubbing under my nails. The water runs hot enough to turn my skin red, the cheap soap stripping oils and leaving my hands raw.
The mirror above the sink reflects a face with sunken cheeks, dark circles, and hair pulled back tight enough to eliminate the need for constant adjustment. Sometimes, I don’t recognize the thin man who stares back.
When I emerge from the bathroom, a plate of the chicken special waits on the break table with double vegetables and a heaping scoop of rice, the same thing I eat every shift. I wave to Rosa, one of the line cooks, and she lifts her chin in acknowledgment.
I leave my apron on the back of a chair and take the plate, carrying it out front and away from the cigarette stench that ruins my appetite.
The dining room buzzes with the regular Tuesday night crowd of truckers stopping between routes, night-shift workers fueling up before clocking in, and insomniacs seeking coffee and human proximity.
I claim the booth farthest from the door, with my back to the wall and a full view of the entrance.
The food steams as I divide the chicken and veggies in half, then hunch over it, shoveling it in between sips of water meant to fill the empty spaces in my stomach.
When I finish one side of the plate, I stop and signal for a to-go box.
The waitress drops off a small Styrofoam container without comment. She’s worked here long enough not to ask questions. I pack the remaining food and refill my water.
I check the time again. Seven minutes left on my break. Long enough to finish the last of my water and return to the kitchen before Carlos starts muttering about my timekeeping.
My mind is already back at my station, running through the prep list for the second half of my shift, when the front door swings open, and everything stops.
The air in the diner shifts, a current running through the room like an electrical surge, raising the hair on my arms. My fingers freeze around my water glass.
The wind from outside sweeps past the new arrival, carrying the raw, undeniable pheromones of an Alpha, and my body registers it before my brain does, a flush of heat blooming at the base of my spine and spreading upward.
Unable to help myself, my head lifts.
The man stands inside the entrance, scanning the room with the casual confidence of someone who never worries about what others think.
His tall, broad-shouldered frame fills the doorway.
He wears his dark brown hair short on the sides, longer on top, styled in careless waves.
His charcoal button-down hugs his broad chest, while the rolled-up sleeves display forearms corded with muscle.
Dark-wash jeans display powerful thighs, and his boots are worn at the toe from actual use.
But it’s his strong jaw, straight nose, and lips curved into what might be amusement or might be a threat that keep me staring. His skin holds the golden remnants of a summer tan, stubble darkening his jawline in a way that sends a phantom tingle across my fingertips.
Across the room, our eyes connect, and the light hazel color catches me off guard as they lock with mine. As I sit frozen in place, the space between where I sit and where he stands compresses into a vacuum where nothing else exists.
I can’t breathe. My lungs have stopped working, caught in the gravity of his attention. Alphas are unavoidable in any service job, but I’ve never encountered one whose mere presence disrupts my autonomic functions.
He doesn’t move toward me. Doesn’t gesture or speak or do anything but stare back with an intensity that registers as a physical touch tracing down my spine. My blood pulses hot beneath my skin, pooling in places untouched by anyone in years.
The ice in my cup rattles as my hand shakes, and I swallow hard, my throat clicking. Heat creeps up my neck to my cheeks, and I want to turn away. I need to turn away.
His nostrils flare as he takes another step into the diner, never taking his eyes off me. And my body betrays me, held captive by a primal hunger that lives beneath my routines.
Heat prickles under my skin, though I’ve been on suppressants since I was sixteen.
I want him. I want him. I want him.
But I can’t afford this desire. I have a sister waiting at home who needs stability more than I need release. I have a life balanced on calculations that leave no room for complications.
My timer beeps, startling me back to reality with the end of my break.
The spell breaks between us, and I slide out of the booth, grab my container, and stand on wobbly legs.
It takes everything in me to turn away, but I manage to walk behind the counter to drop my plate in the busboy bucket before returning to the kitchen to clock in.
Rosa takes in my flushed cheeks as she puts an order in the pass-through. “You good?”
“Fine,” I lie, washing my hands at the prep sink and letting the cold water shock my system. “It’s hot out there.”
The swinging door closes behind me, cutting off my view of the dining room. I don’t check to see if he watched me leave or if he’s still there. Looking would tempt me to turn back.
I tie my apron with steady hands, focusing on the pressure of the knot at my back and the weight of fabric across my hips.
By the time I return to my station, my breathing has normalized, and my skin has cooled.
I file the encounter away alongside the college dreams I abandoned at eighteen, alongside the apartment in a better neighborhood that I’ll never afford, alongside every other want that threatens the fragile balance of our survival.
Like every other hunger, this one will be acknowledged, then ignored.
I have a system for that, too.