https://open.spotify.com/track/08AznbP5RLxjaFOZTqOI9w?si=8564150465eb470c Cops and Robbers by underscores

Chan is halfway through counting the camel smooths when he hears someone clear their throat in front of the register. He looks up, expecting another regular with a lottery ticket or a pack of gum.

Instead, he finds the same man who walked in five minutes ago—the one with the sunbeam smile so blinding Chan nearly knocked the box of beef jerky he was setting up off the counter. Except now, the smile is gone, and he’s pointing a gun directly at Chan’s chest.

“Fuck, are you serious?” Chan blurts before he can stop himself.

The man’s eyes flicker with amusement, gestures slightly with his gun. “Does this look fake to you?”

Chan looks. It does not look fake. Not even a little. His throat tightens, his heartbeat trying to outrun the rest of his organs. He raises both hands slowly, palms out, because he has seen movies and watched the training videos (albeit at x2 speed) and none of them end well starting with sass.

The man tilts his head, a few locks of dyed blond hair brushing his cheek, the freckles scattered around his eyes. This man—robber? Feels corny.—is stunning. Ridiculously so. Which feels like an extra insult layered on top of the life-or-death situation.

“O-okay,” Chan stammers. “What do you want?” He immediately feels like an idiot, the man must be able to tell judging but the way the corner of his mouth quirks up.

“Well,” The man says lightly, “we can start with the register. And maybe the safe, if you’re feeling generous.”

Chan's fingers shake as he types in the override code, flustered. He can feel the man observing him, eyes a physical weight on his hands, his neck, his back, everywhere.

The drawer pops open. The man whistles low. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

Chan feels himself flush with shame and embarrassment while the man sweeps the bills into his open backpack with quick, practiced motions. It should be horrifying, and it is, to have a gun close enough that he could touch it, would probably taste a bullet before he could. But in his shock, or perhaps just some new state of insanity that has seized him, Chan can't help but focus on how striking this man's features are up close—sharp cheekbones, lashes for days, a heart shaped freckle near his left eye that Chan might be hallucinating under this amount of adrenaline.

The man steps back, zipping his bag shut. “You’ve been lovely, Chris,” he says, dark voice brightening just a little as he reads from the crooked name tag on Chan's chest. When a stunned laugh escapes Chan, unbidden, the man flashes the same sunny smile he saw when he walked in, pure warmth.

As he backs toward the door, a finger pressed to his lips, telling Chan to shhh, he adds a playful wink. “See you around.”

And despite the threat of dying of it all, Chan really hopes he will.