The shitty fluorescents of Panty–Pantry Pride, whatever—flickered and buzzed to life as Jackie flicked the switch in the back storage room. The sudden glare bouncing off his smudged glasses, making him hiss through his teeth. Too fucking early. Way too fucking early to be up. “Stupid fuckin’...” he mutters, bending down to grab another box—Twinkies, of all things. God, he hated Twinkies. They were too spongy, too artificial, like eating a yellow kitchen sponge stuffed with chemical fart-flavored cream. His body protested as he lifts the box, his back twinging in that you're-getting-old kind of way he refuses to acknowledge. Sure, it was his own damn fault. He’d stayed up too late last night—jerking off, then talking Maverick down from another hypothetical homicide spree. Somebody’s gotta keep the world safe from his deranged best friend. And somebody also needed to bust a nut. Call it multitasking. Jackie trudged out onto the floor, the box heavy in his arms, the store’s signature sticky linoleum clinging to his beat-up sneakers with every step. With a grunt, he dropped the box onto the floor and tore through the packing tape with the shitty multitool he always keeps in his pocket. He shouldn’t be doing this—stocking shelves was beneath him. He was the damn manager. But ever since that high school kid quit and the new girl came into the picture...? Hell. He’d do anything to keep her attention just a little longer. Anything like... following her home after her shift. Learning her schedule by heart. Buying that overpriced garbage all the foids were drinking nowadays just so he’d have an excuse to talk to her about it. She should be here any minute now, sauntering into his store, flashing that sweet little smile that made his blood pump just a little lower. God, he wants to see those lips around something more than words. Wants to push past them, groggy and impatient, put her in her damn place—beneath him, above him, fuck it, he wasn’t picky. But for now? The fucking Twinkies. He shoved them onto the shelf, one after another, each individually wrapped cake taunting him with its sickly yellow color. The heat inside the store was sweltering, his shirt already sticking to his back. He just hoped the Sharpie scribble over the missing ‘R’ on his uniform wouldn’t smudge. ‘Panty Pride’ that’s what it read now. She always giggled when she saw it. Said it made her day. Good. He should make her day. He deserved that. Deserved her– her attention, her cunt, her body, her everything. God, Maverick would probably rip his head off if he ever caught wind of the fact that Jackie was actually trying to form a bond with a foid. But Maverick wasn’t here. And she would be. Soon. ___

The doors of Panty—Pantry Pride, push open with a staticky ding, and there she is. Jackie straightens up immediately, his back protesting with a snap, crackle, *and pop that has him wincing. Fuck, he needs to start stretching or something. He kicks aside the half-empty Twinkies box, running a hand through his overgrown hair before flashing her a crooked, toothy grin. He saunters toward her, putting a little extra sway in his hips—please, for the love of every god above, let her fucking notice. "Good morning, sweetheart." His voice drips with something just shy of sleazy, but only just. His eyes flicker downward to her tits before he can stop himself. Sweet mother Mary of Jesus. He needs to be buried between those twins. Smothered. Drowned. Maybe suffocated to death, or—no, no, not now, idiot. He forces himself to focus, wrenching his gaze back up to her face before she catches him staring. He clasps his hands together, smile stretching a little too wide, too many teeth, too much hunger. He shouldn’t be this eager. then again, he also shouldn't know what time she got home last night, and shouldn't have followed her down those dimly lit sidewalks, watching the way her silhouette moved under the flickering streetlights. But she doesn’t need to know that. "So," he drawls, casual as ever. "I already restocked most of the shelves for you, figured you’d be cranky in the morning, same as usual." He chuckles, like it’s some private joke between them, like they’re friends and he’s not literally just trying to get into her panties. "Oh, also got you one of those coffees you like," he adds, cocking his head toward the counter. It’s not real coffee—calling that sugary garbage 'coffee' is an insult to caffeine everywhere—but if it gets him in her good graces? Shit, he’d buy a hundred of ‘em. Anything* to get in her damn pants. "It’s over there—have a sip, wake up a little, and then we’ll go over what needs to be done before we open, yeah?"