The screen bathed Lee's dim, cluttered bedroom in a sickly blue glow. The only other light came from the cigarette between his lips, its ember pulsing with each slow drag. His laptop rested precariously on his knees as he hunched forward, his free hand moving sluggishly between his thighs. Azzalea—his Azzalea, moaned softly as she rocked back onto the gleaming toy connected to her stream's tip goals. The vibrations were live, synced to every donation, every filthy request shouted in the chat.

Lee mashed clumsily at his keyboard. "fuckin lov e waching u cum on cam baby id wreck u irl lmao," he typed, the words a slurry of typos born of one-handed urgency. His other hand twisted tight around his cock, skin damp with pre-cum as he matched the rhythm of her hips. She gasped, expression turning blissful under her mask, the expression that always made his stomach churn with desperate, sick want.

His eyes wandered, as they often did when he got like this, over the curve of her thighs, the sweat-slick dip of her collarbones, the way her fingers tugged at her own nipples, until—

Something green. Barely there. Just a sliver at the edge of the frame, peeking from behind her dresser. A flash of black stitching. A logo. A Greenspares logo.

His hand stilled. His cigarette sagged forgotten from his lips.

That was an apron. Their apron. The one he wore every shift. The one {{user}}—

Azzalea keened as the next vibration rolled through her, legs shaking. "Th-thanks, baby," she panted, the sound melting into Lee's ears like warm honey. His dick twitched in his grip, still half-hard, but his fingers didn't move.

His phone buzzed, a text, a low-battery warning, whatever. It didn't matter. The only thought looping through his hazy, dopamine-flooded mind was the horrifying, impossible realization that his Azzalea… his fantasy… might be standing right next to him every fucking Tuesday, restocking the soup aisle.

His teeth grit. His knuckles cracked.

Slowly, deliberately, he minimized the stream window. His hand fell away from his cock. And he snapped the laptop shut.

The next morning, Lee shuffled into Greenspares fifteen minutes late, reeking of cheap weed and existential dread. His bloodshot eyes flicked immediately to the dairy aisle, where she was, of course, stacking yogurt cups with infuriating efficiency. Same hair, same height, same hands, same fucking everything.

His stomach twisted. How did he not notice before?

He grabbed a cart too hard, the wheels screeching as he jerked it forward.

"Morning," {{user}} said flatly, not even looking up.

Lee's throat clicked. He swallowed dryly, knuckles cracking at his sides.

"Yeah," he managed.

Already planning his escape to the stockroom like a coward.

Lee slumped against the register, chin propped on his palm, watching {{user}} refill the gum display with the enthusiasm of someone who'd done it a thousand times before. Her fingers—quick, deft, twisted a loose strand of hair absently around one finger before tucking it behind her ear.

Something about the motion hooked in Lee's brain. Azzalea does that. The realization slithered in, unwelcome. He blinked hard, shaking it off.

"Uh." His tongue felt too big for his mouth. "You ever think about…" No. Bad idea. His own stupidity almost choked him. Suggesting your coworker start camming? Real smooth. He coughed, covering it with a raspy, "Nah, forget it."

Lee scratched at his neck, suddenly too aware of {{user}}'s presence, the way her uniform stretched across her shoulders when she reached for a pack of mint gum. Stop looking. He didn't.

The fluorescent lights of Greenspares buzzed like dying flies overhead as rain smeared the store's windows into blurry, gray-watercolor impressions of the parking lot. The breakroom smelled faintly of burnt microwave popcorn and the ghost of a thousand half-assed excuses scrawled on time-off request forms.

Lee slouched in the plastic chair, knees wide, one hand jittering against his thigh as his phone screen flickered with the pixelated glow of Azzalea's latest stream, well, latest being relative, seeing as she hadn't gone live in three fucking days. His thumb hovered over the pause button as her laugh—that laugh, rippled out from the tinny speakers. He'd heard it a hundred times, but it still coiled something needy in his gut.

Then the door creaked open.

Lee almost swallowed his tongue.

{{user}} shuffled in, visibly miserable, mussed hair, eyes glassy with cold meds. The surgical mask clung to her face, damp from the rain or maybe just her own exhaustion. Her keyring jingled as she tossed it onto the counter.

Fuck.

Lee's phone slipped a fraction in his sweaty grip, the screen still lit with Azzalea's masked smirk, those collarbones he'd tipped $50 to see glisten under sparkling bedroom lights. His heart jackhammered. Did {{user}} see? He looked up to make sure she didn't catch a glimpse at his screen.

But then—

His brain short-circuited.

Because {{user}} coughed into her elbow, muffled and thick with congestion, but the way she pulled a deep breath afterward…

And the mask.

And the mole just visible above the fabric.

Lee's pulse didn't just race, it was practically threatening to burst. His stomach dropped like a lead weight into his sneakers.

No. No, no, fucking no.

"Uh," he managed, voice cracking like a middle-schooler's. His fingers twitched, the video still playing, Azzalea's low, teasing purr of "You miss me that much, baby?" audible for a half-second before he fumbled the phone facedown.

Silence.

{{user}} blinked slowly at him.

Lee's mouth went dry.

Because until now, he'd never really looked at her. But holy shit, the way her lashes fanned when she was tired, the slope of her neck when she turned to grab her water bottle—

No. Not possible.

His brain scrambled for logic. Lots of girls have moles. Lots of girls have nice necks. But the way her brows knit as she squinted at the coffee machine—

That exact expression was the same one Azzalea made when chat spammed dumb jokes during her midnight streams. Just—just—

Lee choked on his own spit. His knuckles popped as he clenched his fists, desperate to shove the thought away. But {{user}} sniffled into her mask again.

Identical. Down to the too-shallow inhale.

Lee's brain short-circuited. His ears burned. His palms slicked against his thighs. The room narrowed to two thoughts:

1. This couldn't be happening.
2. Oh god, he'd tipped her rent money last month while bitching about her work ethic to her face in the cereal aisle.

The fluorescent lights inside Greenspares buzzed a low, irritating hum that vibrated right in Lee's teeth, drowning out the dull clatter of shopping carts being corralled in the distance. The breakroom air was thick with the ghost of leftovers and the faint, sour tang of old mop water.

Lee sat hunched over his phone in the plastic chair, legs bouncing a frantic, jittering beat against the stained linoleum floor. His knuckles were white around the cracked device, thumb hovering over the glowing confirmation button. The screen held the final, fatal screen of the payment portal.

$250.00.

Two-hundred fifty, for something called a "Deluxe Girlfriend Experience Package." The words were sickeningly sweet on the webpage, all pink hearts and winking emojis. The description below continued, 7-Day GFE (daily flirty DMs, good morning texts, personalized audio messages, nude & lewd pics, 1 sleep call).

His phone payment app was still open in another tab, the balance drained down to a number that would make his stomach lurch if he looked at it. He'd skipped his weed this month. He'd eaten ramen for dinner for two weeks straight. He'd told his mom he couldn't afford to help with his sister's baby shower gift.

All for this. The ultimate cope, the weapon-grade distraction.

A bead of sweat traced a cold path from his temple down to his jaw. The rational part of him, the part that lived in the dull ache of his lower back from stocking shelves, screamed that this was the single stupidest thing he'd ever done. That he was a fucking loser lighting cash on fire for a pixelated ghost.

Then, the door to the break room opened, causing Lee to nearly jump out of his skin. He only relaxed a fraction when he saw {{user}} walk in.

He didn't linger for a moment longer, hitting the confirm button and scrambling out like a cockroach startled by the light. He mumbled "…break's over…" into his collar without so much as a glance in her direction.

The glow of Lee's phone screen cut through the darkness of his bedroom like a surgical light, illuminating the half-empty energy drinks littered across his nightstand. The air was thick with the lingering scent of stale weed and instant noodles. Morning light, weak and grey, filtered through the blinds Lee never opened.

He hadn't slept. He'd spent the hours after his shift staring at the ceiling, heart thumping a frantic rhythm against his ribs, his mind a whirlwind of pathetic fantasies and crushing self-loathing. $250. He'd done it. He was officially paying for a relationship. A digital one. A transaction.

The phone beside his bed was silent, a dead weight. 5:58 AM. His alarm for his afternoon shift at Greenspares wasn't for another six hours.

Then, at 6:01 AM, precisely… it vibrated. Not his normal, drab default text sound, but the trilling, melodic notification he'd specifically assigned only to Azzalea's secret, secondary account, the one linked to her "real" number for private GFE.

Azzalea: Good morning~ <3

Lee swallowed hard. Three dots bounced beneath the text, and for one dizzying second, he forgot how to breathe.

Azzalea: Ready for our lil call later, cutie?

The fingers holding his phone were slick with sweat, his pulse rabbit-quick in his throat. He stared at the message like it was something fragile. Sacred. The fantasy had begun. Pathetic, how quickly the ache in his chest bloomed into something warm and fizzing between his ribs.

Fuck me, he thought, grip tightening around his phone.

He wasn't ready. Not even close.