Trial Shift Trouble

The dorm was a ghost town when Elliot left that afternoon, the halls quiet save for the faint echo of someone's music drifting down the corridor. He'd pulled on a faded black shirt—Rusty's makeshift uniform—and shoved his hands into his pockets, stomach churning with a mix of dread and stubborn hope. His trial shift started at 3 p.m., and he needed this job—needed the cash, the control, the proof he could stand on his own. He'd been doing it since he was five, since the crash stole his parents and left him with nothing but foster homes and silence. No one was bailing him out now.

Outside, the air was crisp, biting at his cheeks as he trekked across campus to Rusty's. The neon sign flickered like a dying star when he pushed through the door, the smell of grease and burnt coffee hitting him hard. The waitress from before—Marla, her nametag read—barely glanced up from the counter. "You're the kid from yesterday," she said, voice flat. "Grab a tray. Start with tables five and six. Don't screw up."

Elliot nodded, eyes darting to the floor, and took the tray with shaky hands. The place was half-full—students nursing cheap beers, a couple arguing in whispers, a guy in a corner booth spilling fries on his textbook. He moved fast, clearing plates, wiping spills, mumbling "sorry" when he bumped a chair. His heart thudded too loud, but he kept going, the rhythm of it grounding him. You've done this before, he told himself, thinking of that summer diner, the one that kept him afloat. You can do it again.

By 5 p.m., Marla called a break, and Elliot slumped against the counter, wiping sweat from his brow. He didn't sit, didn't relax—just stood there, hands fidgeting, watching the room. That's when the door jangled, and Bryce walked in, still in his practice gear, sweat streaking his neck, green eyes glinting with restless energy. Those ocean-blue eyes—wide and startled—locked onto him for a split second before dropping, and Elliot's stomach twisted, sharp and uninvited.

"Yo, Elliot," Bryce said, voice rough and sudden, cutting through the diner's hum. "Didn't know you'd be here already. Hungry as hell after practice." He didn't wait for a reply—just slid into a booth near the window, sprawling like he owned it, his gym bag thudding onto the seat.

Elliot shrugged, gaze fixed on the tray in his hands. "Just… started today," he muttered, avoiding Bryce entirely. Why's he here? he thought, panic prickling his skin. He hates people like me. He turned back to work, wiping a table that didn't need it, anything to keep moving.

Bryce snorted, leaning back. "You look like you're about to bolt, man. Chill." He flagged Marla down, barking an order for a burger and fries, then glanced at Elliot hustling across the room. "You're good at this, though. Didn't expect that."

Elliot froze, eyes flicking up for a heartbeat—wary, guarded—before dropping again. "Thanks," he mumbled, barely audible. Don't talk to him, he scolded himself. Don't give him anything. But Bryce's tone wasn't mocking, and it threw him, made the air feel too tight.

Before Bryce could say more, the door swung open again, and a group of guys in sports coats stormed in—teammates, loud and rowdy, fresh off practice. Ryan, Bryce's best friend, led the pack, his grin wide as he dropped into the booth across from Bryce, snagging a fry from the plate Marla had just slammed down. "Yo, Callahan, you good?" he asked, voice booming. "You're zoned out. What's up?"

Bryce grunted, leaning back. "Just eating, man. Long day." His green eyes flicked to Elliot, scrubbing tables across the room, and something tightened in his chest.

Ryan followed his gaze, smirking. "That your new roommate? The quiet one? What's his deal?"

Bryce's jaw twitched, and he shrugged, keeping it casual. "Yeah, Elliot. He's shy as hell. Doesn't open up, keeps his head down." His voice was gruff, dismissive, but in his mind, those ocean-blue eyes flashed—dodging him, always dodging him—and it gnawed at him. Why's he so damn distant? he thought, brow furrowing. Something's off with him, those eyes… like he's hiding shit. He didn't say it, didn't let it show, but the worry stuck, sharp and quiet.

"Sounds boring," another teammate, Jake, piped up, laughing. "You stuck with a mute, Callahan?"

"Nah, he's fine," Bryce shot back, sharper than he meant, then softened it with a smirk. "Stays out of my way." But his eyes lingered on Elliot, hunched over a table, and that twist flared again, uninvited.

Ryan raised an eyebrow, smirking wider. "Sure, man. Whatever you say."

Before they could dig further, a new voice cut through—high-pitched, syrupy. "Bryce! There you are!" It was Tara, a junior with a loud laugh and a crush everyone knew about. She slid up to the booth, all smiles, tossing her blonde hair as she leaned in close to Bryce. "Missed you at the last game. You were amazing out there." Her hand brushed his arm, lingering, her giggle grating against the diner's hum.

Bryce smirked, leaning back with a casual "Thanks, Tara," but his eyes flicked across the room—instinct, maybe—and caught Elliot. The tray in Elliot's hands faltered, his grip tightening, eyes darting to Tara then away, fast, like he'd been stung. His face twisted—brief, raw, a flicker of something bitter he couldn't mask—and he turned, shoulders hunching tighter as he scrubbed harder at a table.

Elliot's chest burned, a hot, stupid ache he shoved down deep. He's not mine, he scolded himself, jaw clenched. He hates people like me. Doesn't matter. But Tara's laugh, her hand on Bryce, the ease of it—it stabbed, sharp and uninvited, and he hated how it lingered, hated how it twisted something loose. He kept it locked inside, silent, his ocean-blue eyes glassy but hidden, focused on the tray, the tables, anything but Bryce.

Bryce's green eyes narrowed, catching that flinch, that quick turn away. What the hell was that? he thought, the twist in his chest flaring hotter. Tara was still chattering—something about a party—but he barely heard her, his gaze stuck on Elliot, scrubbing like his life depended on it.

Ryan snorted, oblivious. "She's still on you, huh?" he said, nodding at Tara. Bryce grunted, half-listening, but his mind was elsewhere—those ocean-blue eyes, dodging him again, and that flicker of something he couldn't place.

Jake laughed, elbowing Bryce. "Lucky man, Callahan. She's all over you."

"Yeah," Bryce muttered, forcing a smirk, but his eyes stayed on Elliot, the worry simmering quieter now, buried under the noise.

Marla called time at 7 p.m., grunting a curt "You're hired" as Elliot clocked out. He nodded, relief drowned by the weight in his chest, and slipped out the back, avoiding Bryce's booth. But when he reached the dorm, Bryce was already there, sprawled on his bed, green eyes flicking up as the door creaked, locking onto those ocean-blue depths—now guarded, distant.

"You're fast, Elliot," Bryce said, voice rough but steady, like he'd been waiting. "Survived your first day, huh?"

Elliot froze, eyes dropping fast. "Yeah," he whispered, turning away, hands shoving into his pockets as he dropped his bag. The shadow of Tara's laugh—and that stupid, silent ache—clung to him, but he kept it locked tight, out of Bryce's reach.