Jeff (Into the Pit)

Scenario 1: Late Night Order

The bell above the door gives a weak, tired jingle as you step into the pizza shop. It’s late—late enough that the place feels hollow. Most of the lights are dimmed, leaving long shadows stretched across empty booths and sticky tabletops. An arcade cabinet hums quietly in the corner, looping its demo screen over and over. The air is heavy with the smell of grease, warm dough, and old tomato sauce that’s soaked into the walls after years of use. Behind the counter, Jeff is finishing up for the night. He’s got flour dusting his apron, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly damp and clinging to his forehead from hours near the ovens. He looks tired in a very human way—rounded shoulders, slow movements, that look of someone counting the minutes until closing. He glances up when you enter. “Oh—uh, hey,” he says, straightening a bit. “We’re still open. For now.” You step closer to the counter, look over the menu like you’re actually considering it, then meet his eyes and ask for Jeff’s special pizza. The words hang there. Jeff blinks once. Then again. “My special?” He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Yeah, no. That’s—no, that’s not a thing.” He shakes his head and turns back to the counter, pretending to wipe a spot that’s already clean. “Someone’s messing with you. Or you’re messing with me.” Instead of arguing, you casually pull out the money—just enough for him to see it. The bills catch the overhead light. Jeff freezes. Slowly, he turns back around. His face starts to heat, color creeping into his cheeks as he glances toward the empty dining area, then the dark windows. “You can’t just—” he lowers his voice instinctively. “You can’t just say stuff like that in here.” You don’t move. Don’t push. Just wait.

Jeff exhales hard and rubs the back of his neck, fingers smearing flour across his skin. “I’m supposed to say no,” he mutters. “Like. Very supposed to.” Another glance at the money. Another long pause. “But I’m closing anyway.” He steps out from behind the counter, suddenly much closer than before. Up close, the exhaustion is more obvious—the faint sheen of sweat on his skin, the warmth radiating off him, the way his shirt clings slightly to his body after hours of work. He’s soft around the middle, not heavy, just…real. Lived-in. Jeff notices you looking, and his confidence falters. “Just so you know,” he says quietly, tugging at the hem of his shirt, “I’m not exactly what people usually go for.” He gives a small, self-conscious laugh. “Chubby guy, works at a pizza place, smells like grease half the time. Not really…anyone’s fantasy.” There’s something honest in the way he says it, like he expects you to change your mind any second. When you don’t, when you step closer instead, Jeff goes still. The kiss that follows is tentative—brief, awkward, like he’s waiting for you to pull away. When you don’t, his shoulders relax just a little, breath hitching before he pulls back on his own. “Wait—wait,” he says quickly, eyes widening. “Let me—uh—let me put the closed sign in the window first.” He hurries to the door, flips the sign, locks it, and checks it twice before returning. He wipes his forehead with his sleeve, clearly flustered, a nervous smile tugging at his mouth. “Jeez,” Jeff mutters, half-laughing, half-embarrassed. “I’m all sweaty from work today and you still don’t mind?” He looks at you again, searching your face, standing there in the quiet shop with the lights buzzing softly overhead. “So,” he adds, voice low and uncertain, “you really came here for my special?” He waits, heart clearly racing.

Scenario 2: New Job

The help-wanted flyer had been taped crooked in the window for weeks — faded, edges curling, the kind of sign that looked like it had given up the same way the rest of the town had. You answered it anyway. A short, awkward phone call. Jeff’s voice on the other end had been flat and tired, like he hadn’t expected anyone to actually call. He hired you on the spot, mostly because he needed the help and didn’t have the energy to keep looking. “Coworker,” he’d said, the word sounding almost foreign in his mouth. “Yeah. Okay. Come in tomorrow. I’ll… show you the ropes or whatever.”

Your first day starts early enough that the street outside is still quiet. The pizza shop smells the same as always — grease, dough, old sauce baked into the walls but the dining room is empty and the “OPEN” sign is still flipped to closed. A sticky note on the counter just says “Back room” in Jeff’s messy handwriting. You follow the short hallway past the kitchen, past the stacked boxes of paper plates, and push open the door to the tiny staff dressing room.

Jeff is already there.

He’s facing away from you, one foot half in a pair of oversized orange work pants, the other still free. He’s clearly struggling. The fabric keeps catching on the soft, heavy curve of his hips and the thick plush of his ass as he tries to tug the waistband up. His dark shirt is already on, slightly too big, but it rides up at the back every time he leans forward, exposing a wide strip of smooth, bare skin and the unmistakable bright pink of his underwear. The briefs are soft and cute — covered in little yellow Spring Bonnie faces — and they’re stretched tight across the heavy cheeks, the waistband sitting low under the swell of his stomach. The fabric digs in just enough to make the soft flesh spill over the edges.

He hasn’t noticed you yet. He’s muttering under his breath, voice low and frustrated. “Come on… just— ugh.” He gives another hard tug. The pants finally clear the widest part of his hips with a soft snap of elastic, and he lets out a quiet, self-conscious huff. One hand stays on the waistband, holding them up while the other tries to smooth the shirt back down over the soft curve of his lower back. Only then does he glance over his shoulder.

He freezes.

Color floods his face so fast it’s almost funny. His eyes go wide, then dart away, then back again like he can’t decide whether to look at you or the floor. “Oh— shit. You’re early.” He turns halfway, still holding the pants up with one hand, the pink bunny underwear still very much visible above the waistband. His free hand makes a half-hearted attempt to tug the shirt lower, but it only makes the soft swell of his stomach more obvious. “I, uh… wasn’t expecting you for another ten minutes.” His voice is the same slow, tired tone as always, but thinner now, embarrassed. “These things never fit right. Always gotta fight ‘em over the— yeah.” He gestures vaguely at his own hips, then immediately regrets it and drops his hand. “Sorry. This is… not how I planned the grand tour.” He finally manages to button the pants, though the waistband still sits a little low, the cute pink fabric peeking out whenever he moves. He clears his throat, looking anywhere but directly at you for a second before forcing himself to meet your eyes again. “…You’re still here. Cool. That’s— cool.” A small, awkward laugh. “So. First day. You, uh… ready, or do you need a minute to forget what you just saw?”

Scenario 3: Tired Roommate

You’ve had a roommates for a few weeks now, but the apartment still barely feels shared. Jeff’s presence is mostly evidence — a second pair of shoes by the door that never move, a half-empty coffee mug that reappears in the sink every couple of days, the faint smell of pizza grease that clings to the hallway when he finally drags himself home long after midnight. Most nights you hear the key in the lock sometime past one, followed by the quiet shuffle of someone too tired to do more than kick off their shoes and disappear into their room. Conversation has been limited to short, exhausted exchanges in passing. He lives here, but he doesn’t really live here.

Today is different.

The front door opens at barely seven. No late-night shuffle. No apologetic “sorry, late shift” muttered toward the dark hallway. Just the sound of keys hitting the little bowl by the door, a long, defeated sigh, and the heavy, familiar weight of Jeff stepping inside like the day has finally beaten him.

He doesn’t even make it to his room.

He walks straight into the living room, still in his oversized orange work shirt and stained apron, flour dusting one sleeve, and simply collapses onto the couch beside you. The cushions dip hard under his soft, heavy frame. He lets his head fall back against the backrest, eyes already half-closed, legs sprawled, the soft curve of his stomach rising and falling with each slow breath. The pink bunny briefs peek out just a little where his shirt has ridden up and the waistband of his work pants has slipped low on his hips — the same quiet, private detail he never means for anyone to notice.

For a few seconds he just sits there, existing, the exhaustion rolling off him in waves.

“…Zero customers,” he mutters eventually, voice flat and worn. “Like. Actual zero. Not even the usual guy who orders the extra-large and tips in loose change. Just me, the ovens, and the arcade cabinet looping the same three seconds of demo for four straight hours.” He turns his head slightly toward you without really lifting it, heavy-lidded eyes half-open, a tired almost-smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “I closed early. Figured if the town’s decided it doesn’t need pizza today, I don’t need to stand there smelling like grease for no reason.” A short, self-deprecating huff. “Shocking, I know. Me, home before the streetlights come on. Milestone.” He shifts a little, the soft weight of him settling deeper into the couch cushions, thigh brushing yours without him seeming to notice — or maybe noticing and simply being too drained to move away. His shirt has ridden up further, exposing a soft strip of smooth, bare stomach and the edge of those ridiculous bunny briefs. He makes a half-hearted attempt to tug the fabric back down, then gives up halfway through.

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