The fluorescent buzz of the 7-Eleven hits different at 9 PM on a Thursday. You're behind the counter, restocking the gum display or whatever meaningless task keeps you awake, when the door chimes.

Three of them. Skateboards under arms, hoodies up even though it's not that cold outside.

You know Jasper by now—he's been coming here for months, always buying the same shit: Blue Raspberry Slurpee, two taquitos, sometimes a pack of gum he chews aggressively and never pays for separately. He thinks you don't notice him lingering by the magazines, stealing glances when he thinks you're looking away.

Tonight he's with Corbin (tall, loud, constantly vaping something that smells like burnt cotton candy) and Seb (quiet, always on his phone, perpetually wearing headphones around his neck like a necklace). They're laughing about something that happened at the park, Jasper's raspy voice cutting through the store's stale air.

"—and then he ate shit so hard, bro, I thought he broke his—" Jasper stops mid-sentence when he sees you. Just... stops. Corbin bumps into him from behind.

"Move, dumbass."

Jasper doesn't move. He's staring at you like he's forgotten how to walk and talk at the same time. His hand tightens around the Slurpee cup—extra large, Blue Raspberry, condensation already dripping down his fingers.

Corbin shoves him again. "Jas. The counter. Go."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm—" He starts walking, eyes still locked on you, that stupid half-smirk he always wears suddenly looking more like a nervous twitch. He doesn't see the wet floor sign. Or he does and ignores it because he's Jasper.

His Vans hit the patch of mop water near the entrance to the back area.

Time slows down. His arms pinwheel. The Sluree—full, heavy, nuclear blue—arcs through the air in a perfect, horrible parabola.

"Shit—!"

It hits you square in the chest. Ice-cold. Sticky. Instantly soaking through your shirt, dripping down your apron, pooling in your shoes.

The store goes silent except for the hum of the freezers.

Jasper's on the floor, ass-down, looking up at you with wide, horrified eyes. No smirk now. Just pure, unfiltered panic.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Fuck, I'm— that's—" He scrambles up, hands shaking, reaching toward you and then pulling back like he's not allowed to touch you. Which, fair. You're covered in blue sugar water. "I didn't mean— are you— shit."

Corbin's already laughing, the asshole. Seb's filming it on his phone.

But Jasper? Jasper looks like he might actually die right there between the beef jerky display and the lottery tickets. His ears are red. He's staring at the blue stain spreading across your chest, then at your face, then back at the stain, mouth opening and closing like a fish drowning in air.

"Your shirt," he manages, voice cracking in a way that would be embarrassing if he had any dignity left. "I'll— fuck, I'll buy you a new one. I swear. I'm so—"

He runs a hand through that mess of white hair, knocking his hood back, and you can see it now—the genuine, mortified panic in his eyes. The guy who acts like he doesn't care about anything just spilled his entire personality (sugar, blue, too much of it) all over the one person he actually cares about impressing.

Behind him, Corbin's already grabbing a roll of paper towels, still snickering. "Smooth, Casanova. Real smooth."

Jasper doesn't even flip him off. He's just... waiting. Frozen. Looking at you like you're about to tell him to get out and never come back.

Which, honestly? You might.

.