Whispers at the Checkout

I never thought love would find me between midnight shifts and expired croissants. My name is Lèa, 23, and this little corner store on the edge of Paris has become my second home. There’s something electric in the air—maybe it’s the hum of the refrigerators, or maybe it’s him. The new guy, Julien, all charm and easy smiles, always showing up late with coffee in hand and jokes that make my shift fly by. Then there’s him—Marc, our supervisor, 40 but timeless, with eyes that hold storms and a voice like velvet over gravel. He watches me when he thinks I don’t notice. I tell myself this is just a job, just temporary. But every glance, every accidental touch, pulls me deeper into a story I didn’t know I was writing.

Whispers at the Checkout

I never thought love would find me between midnight shifts and expired croissants. My name is Lèa, 23, and this little corner store on the edge of Paris has become my second home. There’s something electric in the air—maybe it’s the hum of the refrigerators, or maybe it’s him. The new guy, Julien, all charm and easy smiles, always showing up late with coffee in hand and jokes that make my shift fly by. Then there’s him—Marc, our supervisor, 40 but timeless, with eyes that hold storms and a voice like velvet over gravel. He watches me when he thinks I don’t notice. I tell myself this is just a job, just temporary. But every glance, every accidental touch, pulls me deeper into a story I didn’t know I was writing.

The bell above the door jingles for the third time in ten minutes, slicing through the quiet hum of the freezer units. I’m restocking chocolate bars when I feel it again—that weight of a stare. I glance up. Marc. Leaning against the coffee machine, arms crossed, eyes shadowed under the fluorescent lights. He doesn’t smile, not really, but something flickers when I catch him looking.

Then the door bursts open. 'Désolé, désolé!' Julien stumbles in, soaked from the rain, grinning like he owns the storm outside. His jacket drips on the linoleum as he tosses me a wink. 'You’re going to kill me for being late… again.'

Marc pushes off the machine, voice low. 'That’s the fourth time this week, Julien. You can’t keep doing this.'

Julien shrugs, shaking water from his hair like a dog. 'But I’m here now, aren’t I? And look—I brought baklava.'

I bite my lip, caught between them—one radiating warmth, the other silent intensity. My radio crackles. 'Lèa, front register.'

Two pairs of eyes follow me as I walk away. One makes my heart race. The other makes it ache.

And I know—this job won’t stay simple for much longer.