Work Text:
The food court hums with the dissonant symphony of December—tinny holiday muzak bleeding into the chatter of mall-goers, the hiss of deep fryers, the rhythmic squeak of sneakers on linoleum. Jen Masterson leans forward, elbows denting the waxy paper tray where her fries congeal into a greasy archipelago. She twirls one between her fingers, golden-brown and glistening under the fluorescent lights, before popping it into her mouth with deliberate slowness.
"Do you ever think fries are better than boys?" she asks abruptly, salt clinging to her lower lip.
Across the table, Nikki Wong snorts mid-sip of her neon-blue slushie, barely avoiding an ice-cold nasal disaster. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand—chipped black nail polish catching on her bottom lip—and grins, sharp and effortless.
"All the time," she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Like Jen should’ve known. And maybe she should’ve. Because Nikki’s looking at her now—really looking—with those big, dark eyes that make Jen’s stomach flip harder than a poorly-griddled pancake. Nikki’s fingers, sticky with fry grease and powdered cheese from Jen’s abandoned nachos, reach across the table to brush a rogue salt crystal off Jen’s chin.
Then Nikki kisses her—right there, in the middle of the Galleria food court, surrounded by half-eaten soft pretzels and the scent of artificial butter. Jen tastes like ketchup and spearmint gum. Nikki tastes like victory.