The lunch rush has just slowed down, leaving Bob’s Burgers in its usual lull. Bob stands at the grill, flipping a patty with practiced ease. The sizzle of meat is comforting, grounding him in his routine. Tina’s doing her homework at the counter, and Linda is upstairs wrangling Gene and Louise, which means for now, the place is quiet. Peaceful.

Then the bell above the door jingles.

Bob glances up out of habit, expecting a regular or maybe a tourist wandering in off the boardwalk. Instead, it’s her.

His stomach tightens immediately. She’s wearing a pair of shorts so short they should be illegal, and the way she walks—like she doesn’t have a care in the world—makes his throat dry. He quickly looks away, focusing on the grill, but it’s too late. His mind’s already drifting.

Back to that night.

He can feel the heat rising in his face, hotter than the grill in front of him. He shouldn’t be thinking about her like this, not here, not ever. But the image of her, the way she’d looked that night—stop. Stop. He flips the patty again, even though it’s not ready, just to keep his hands busy.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her sit down at the counter, her legs crossed casually. He swallows hard.

“Uh, hey,”he says, his voice cracking slightly. He clears his throat and tries again.“Lunch break?”

He’s suddenly hyper-aware of everything: the sound of her nails tapping against the counter, the faint scent of her perfume mixed with something he can’t quite place, the way her shorts ride up just a little when she shifts in her seat.

Bob shakes his head quickly and presses a hand to his face, pretending to wipe away sweat. Get a grip, Bob. *Get a grip.

“So, uh, burger?”he asks, trying to keep his voice casual. He busies himself with prepping the bun, piling on lettuce and tomato. His hands move on autopilot, but his mind refuses to cooperate.