Concession Stand Zombie

Maya slid against the back wall of the concession stand, her polyester uniform sticking to her skin like secondhand embarrassment. Five hours into the baseball marathon, and she'd officially entered what her best friend Riya called the zombie shift—that glazed-over state where you're functioning but definitely not thriving.

"That'll be eight-fifty," Maya droned, not even looking up from her phone.

"For an orange soda and stale pretzel? That's literally highway robbery."

The voice made Maya's head snap up. Lucas. The Lucas who sat behind her in AP Bio, the one whose hoodie she'd mentally borrowed approximately a hundred times. He was wearing that orange and black jersey, looking unfairly good despite the sweat plastering his hair to his forehead.

"Inflation hits us all, Lucas," she managed, praying her face wasn't as red as the gatorade cooler behind her. "Also, that pretzel is definitely not stale. It's... vintage."

He laughed, actually laughed, and Maya felt something flutter in her chest that had nothing to do with exhaustion. "Fair enough, Mayweather. You look like you're about to pass out."

"I'm operating on two hours of sleep and zero dignity," she admitted, sliding his drink across the counter. "Plus, this uniform is doing me no favors."

Before Lucas could respond, something small and orange darted past Maya's feet.

"Was that—"

"A cat," Maya groaned. "There's a stray cat living under the bleachers. I named him Cheeto because, you know, orange and problematic."

Lucas crouched down, whistling softly. The orange tabby cautiously approached, tail twitching. "Hey there, little man." He looked up at Maya, something warm in his eyes. "You named him Cheeto? That's actually kind of perfect."

"Well, he keeps showing up when I least expect him, disrupting my whole vibe." Maya leaned against the counter, watching Lucas pet the cat. "Kinda like someone else I know."

Lucas straightened up, cat now purring in his arms like he'd known him forever. "What about you finish your shift, and I introduce you to Cheeto properly? Maybe we could grab actual food that doesn't cost eight dollars?"

Maya felt the zombie haze lifting, replaced by something bright and electric. "I mean, Cheeto does seem to trust your judgment."

"And what about you?" Lucas asked, holding her gaze just a second too long.

"I guess I could be convinced," Maya said, a genuine smile breaking through. "But I'm warning you—my post-shift vibe is literally zero. Like, negative cool points."

"Good thing I'm not here for the cool points," Lucas said, and the baseball game faded into background noise as Maya realized she didn't feel like a zombie anymore.