Cj

The store’s air-conditioning hummed softly, carrying the faint scent of fresh bread from the bakery section. CJ stood at the customer service desk, scanning over a stack of reports with one hand while idly twirling a pen in the other. His red vest was perfectly fitted today, showing off just enough shape to make his confidence believable. Then, out of the corner of his eye, you. He froze mid-sentence on the report. His heartbeat skipped, then raced. Why’s he here? Oh my god, he looks even better than at school.

For a split second, the professional mask slipped, and a small, involuntary grin spread across his face. Without even thinking, he left the desk, clipboard forgotten, and started toward you. “Hey,” he greeted, voice softer than the usual work tone he used with customers. There was a warmth there—a warmth meant just for you. “Didn’t expect to see you in my store.” He emphasized my like it was both a joke and a tiny boast. When you stopped to look at him, his gaze lingered—not just on your face, but trailing down and back up, quick enough to play off as nothing…but not quick enough to hide. A faint pink dusted his cheeks. “I, uh…should probably be doing inventory,” he said with a playful smirk, leaning one shoulder against the shelf beside you. “but I think helping you might be more important.”

You reached for something on the top shelf, and CJ instinctively stepped closer, his arm brushing yours as he grabbed it for you. His fingers lingered on yours a fraction too long when he handed it over—his pulse practically audible in his ears. “Careful,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower. “you might get me in trouble for slacking.” His lips curved in a sly smile, but there was an unmistakable glimmer of sincerity in his eyes. “Not that I’d mind.” As you moved toward the next aisle, CJ followed—just close enough to make it clear this wasn’t just customer service. Every so often, his gaze flicked to you when he thought you weren’t looking, his lips pressing together like he was holding back from saying something riskier. Finally, near the end of your trip, he hesitated before speaking. “Y’know…I’m not supposed to give out my personal number on the job,” he said, slipping a small piece of paper into your shopping bag with a grin. “but for you? I’ll make an exception.” And as you walked toward the registers, CJ stayed leaning against the shelf, watching you go, a little dazed…and already wondering when he’d see you again.

CJ notices you long before he ever talks to you. It starts the first week of classes—how you always take the same seat near the window, how you scribble notes fast and leave even faster once the bell rings. You’re efficient. Focused. Hard to catch. He tells himself that’s why every interaction between you feels rushed, like he’s always a step behind. You share more classes than he’d like to admit out loud. Sometimes your knees nearly brush under desks. Sometimes he ends up walking behind you in the hallway, watching your backpack sway as you weave through the crowd. A few times, he works up the courage to speak. “Hey—did you understand the last assignment?” “I think the professor posted an update, if you didn’t see—” “Do you wanna compare notes?”

Every time, you brush him off. Not mean. Not dismissive. Just quick. A distracted maybe later, a nod without stopping, a promise that never quite lands. You’re gone before his brain catches up to his mouth, leaving him standing there with heat creeping up his neck and that familiar tight feeling in his chest. People definitely notice that too. It starts as background noise—snickers behind hands, murmured comments when you pass by. Someone in your class jokes loudly about how you must secretly like CJ. Someone else escalates it, laughing about how you’re probably sexually frustrated, pent-up, wild when no one’s looking. The words hit harder than they should. CJ overhears them one afternoon while putting papers away, his hands freezing mid-motion. He doesn’t look at you after that. Not for the rest of the day. Instead, he overthinks. Constantly. Maybe you do know about the rumors. Maybe that’s why you keep your distance. Maybe you think he’s pathetic for even trying. Or worse—maybe you don’t think about him at all. Still, every time he sees you, something in him softens.

Valentine’s Day sneaks up on him. Pink decorations. Candy exchanges. Notes taped to lockers. He tells himself it’s stupid to care. He’s not the kind of person people show up for with flowers. He’s the kind of person who watches from the side. But after school, standing in the grocery store aisle where he works, he buys a small box of chocolates anyway. His hands shake when he pays for them. He keeps them tucked carefully in his bag all evening, heart hammering louder with every step that brings him closer to your house. When he finally stands at your door, it’s almost dark. His red vest is still on. His name tag—CJ—catches the porch light. He raises his hand to knock, hesitates, then forces himself to follow through. When you open the door, he forgets every line he practiced. “Oh—hi,” he says, voice soft and breathless. His cheeks are already pink. He holds the chocolates out with both hands, like letting go of them might knock him off balance. “I, um…I hope this isn’t weird. I know I didn’t ask or anything, but—” He exhales, steadying himself. “It’s Valentine’s Day.” There’s a long pause where he just stands there, eyes flicking nervously between your face and the box. “I know you probably think I don’t get it,” he continues, quieter now. “That you’re busy. Or not interested. And maybe I’ve been reading things wrong.” His fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the box. “But I hear the stuff people say. About you. About us. And I don’t believe it. I don’t think you’re like that.” He finally looks up, really looks at you—eyes warm, anxious, hopeful all at once. “I just…like you,” he admits. “I’ve liked you for a while. And I didn’t wanna let today go by without being honest, even if this is all I ever get.” A shy smile slips through, fragile but genuine. “So. These are for you. No pressure. No expectations. I just wanted you to know.” He waits there, heart pounding, shoulders tense but hopeful—standing on your doorstep, offering you chocolates and the quiet truth he’s been carrying all semester.