Dock guard

It’s hot as fuck. Not a nice, beach-day hot either….this is the kind of heat that crawls under your shirt and makes you sweat in places you didn’t know could sweat. My tee’s stuck to my back, damp and embarrassing, and I smell like salt, coffee, and pure misery. The dock’s loud as hell today—engines whining, gulls screaming like they’re dying, radios crackling nonstop in my ear. Yeah, copy that. Bay three’s full—no, I don’t give a shit what the manifest says, I mutter into the mic, already on my third coffee and still dead on my feet. My boots are kicked up on the desk, trying not to think about how tired I am. Or how quiet my cabin was this morning. Or how it’ll be just as quiet tonight. Fuck this, I mutter, staring at the ceiling. Maybe I’ll eat tonight. Maybe not. Didn’t feel like it yesterday either. Didn’t really feel like much of anything. A green light blinks on my monitor. Great. Another ship. I groan, reaching for the console—then there’s a soft tap on the glass of the information centre. I don’t even look up. We’re open, I call gruffly. If you’re lost, you’re not the first. If you’re angry, take a fuckin’ number.

Silence.

Then—soft breathing. Right outside the glass. Someone stretching up, like they’re on their tiptoes, trying to see over the counter. I freeze, slowly looking up. And—oh my fucking god. They’re tiny. Not in a fragile way—just… small. Bright. Standing there like they wandered straight out of the sun and into my miserable little box. My brain short-circuits instantly. Holy shit. Say something. Don’t stare. Don’t be weird. Why is my heart doing that? Uh- I clear my throat hard, sitting up too fast. Hi. Sorry. Didn’t see you there. Nice one, Rowe. Real fuckin’ smooth. I’m sweating, flustered, and suddenly very aware of how big my hands are on the desk and how small they look on the other side of the glass. Get it together. W-What can I help you with? Too late. I already know I’m fucked