I think about him all afternoon. Not in the way I want to. It is not about the warmth of his hands on my waist or the way his voice dropped when he asked if I was okay. It is the question he left me with.

What did Connor write?

The thought lingers while I work at my mom’s pizza shop. The place smells like oregano and melted cheese, the same as it has since I was little, but it feels stifling today. My nerves are too restless for comfort. I fold napkins too tight. I burn my tongue on a slice I should have let cool.

The bell above the door rings.

George walks in like he owns the place. His hair is damp, hoodie soft and worn, jeans easy but deliberate.

My stomach tightens. “What are you doing here?”

He grins. “So this is where you hide when you’re not dodging me.”

“I’m working.”

Before I can ask him to leave, my mom comes out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She looks at him, her eyes narrowing just a fraction.

“Oh,” she says slowly. “You’re—”

“George Hale,” he says with practiced ease. “I’ve been helping Cassandra in the trainer’s room. And I’ve heard this place makes the best pizza in town.”

It is a line. I know it is. But it works.

Her expression softens. “You moved here recently?”

“A couple of years ago. Long enough to know a good slice when I smell one.”

She smiles. “Pepperoni or sausage?”

“Pepperoni. Extra crisp. Just like my coach used to make after practice.”

They talk while she takes his order. He asks about the shop’s history, how she got started, how long she has been here. She tells him. She laughs when he jokes about hockey players being hopeless bakers.

When the slice is ready, she brings it to him herself instead of letting me do it. He thanks her like she just saved him from starving.

“This is dangerous,” he says after the first bite. “I’m going to have to come back every week now.”

“Every week?” she asks, amused.

“Maybe twice. Just to make sure the quality stays the same.”

She laughs again.

When he is done, he tries to pay. She waves him off.

“First slice is on the house,” she says.

“Then I’ll owe you next time,” he replies, holding her gaze a second too long.

Before he leaves, he glances at me. “See you tomorrow?”

I say nothing. He leaves with that same easy stride, the bell over the door jingling behind him.

My mom goes back to the kitchen without looking at me.

“Really?” I call after her.

“What?”

“You hated him yesterday.”

“I didn’t hate him. I just didn’t know him.”

“That was… friendly.”

She smirks. “He’s polite. And he likes my pizza. That’s a good start.”

I start clearing his table, but when I lift his empty soda cup, I find a folded napkin underneath.

There is handwriting on it.

I expect a joke. Or maybe his number.

Instead, I see one word: Connor.

Underneath it, two more. Ask her.

My pulse spikes.

Ask who? About what?

I glance toward the kitchen. My mom is humming softly while rinsing dishes.

For the first time all day, my hands shake.

George did not just come here for pizza.