Green Lies and Fiber Optics

I never thought I'd be grateful for a vegetable delivery accident until the day Jason Mercer caught me staring at him through the security cameras.

"Spinach spill in aisle three," my manager Gary's voice crackled through the broken headset, static fuzzing like the embarrassment heating my cheeks.

I was supposed to be monitoring for shoplifters, not crushing on the debate team captain who somehow made a uniform vest look like couture. But the security feed had become my personal reality show, my way of spying on the guy I was too terrified to approach in person.

Pathetic? Absolutely.

The cable connecting my monitor to the ceiling camera had been fraying for weeks. Every time I adjusted the angle, the screen flickered like my confidence whenever Jason walked past. But today, something snapped—literally.

The monitor went black. Panicked, I climbed onto the swivel chair to fix it. That's when Jason walked in.

He didn't walk. He strutted, like he owned the fluorescent-lit kingdom of Peterson's Market. His dark curls bounced. His green eyes—exactly the same shade as the spilled vegetable—scanned the store until they landed on me, frozen mid-climb, one hand reaching toward the dangling cable.

"Need help?" he asked.

His voice was deeper than I expected. Richer.

"I, uh, the camera..." I stammered, gesturing helplessly at the mess above me. "Security guard stuff. Very important."

Jason smirked. Not mean-spirited, just... knowing. "You've been watching me, haven't you?"

My stomach dropped. This was it. Humiliation complete. I'd have to transfer schools. Maybe move to another country.

"I wasn't—" I started.

"It's okay," he said, stepping closer. "I've been acting like I didn't notice you looking. Pretty rude of me, honestly."

He reached up, his fingers brushing against mine as he grabbed the cable connector. His skin was warm. Static electricity passed between us, or maybe that was just my heart misfiring.

"I'm not spying on you," I whispered. "I just... I don't know how to talk to you. So I watch. From a distance. Where it's safe."

Jason plugged the cable back in. The screen flickered to life, showing us both reflected in the grainy security feed—two teenagers caught in a moment neither had planned.

"That's the thing about safety," he said, his voice dropping to that serious debate-team register that made my knees weak. "It keeps you protected, but it also keeps you alone. Sometimes you've got to grab the bull by the horns, you know?"

My jaw dropped. "Did you just use a cliché in a pickup attempt?"

His laugh was this genuine, bright sound that made the fluorescent lights feel softer. "I'm working on it. Debate team doesn't exactly teach romance. So... Friday night? There's this terrible diner downtown. Their milkshakes are illegally good."

I nodded, unable to form words.

"Great," Jason said, grabbing a frozen pizza from the nearest cooler. "I'll be back at seven. Don't spy on me before then, okay?"

As he walked away, I caught my reflection on the security monitor—grinning like an idiot.

The spinach could wait.