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I’d go with meatball. My job requires me to wear black—or on days I’m feeling extra sassy, a deep navy blue—so it’ll hide any mess. But I’m not sure I want to make a spectacle of myself. God, why am I turning this fucking sandwich order into Sophie’s Choice?

“Um, hey. I want—” the girl in front of me says. Her words are cut off by a sharp knock on metal and then a noise of protest.

I look up and finally see the Deaf Chef himself. He’s a redhead—more strawberry blond than carrot ginger, but in the small strip of sunline that cuts across the ordering window, I see the highlights. His face is a constellation of freckles, and his eyes are very dark, and so are his lashes, which is a surprise.

Maybe he dyes them. Fuck, I don’t know, but he’s hot though.Christ, he’s hot. He’s biting his lip as he points to something I can’t quite see, and he’s got slightly prominent front teeth like a bunny, and his eye teeth stick out far enough to touch his lip.

His fingers are thin and very lithe and expressive, even though he’s not signing.

“Okay, I want?—”

He stops them again with that same knock and points at whatever’s in front of them.

“What does that even mean?” the girl says, sounding angry now.

I know he can handle himself. I’ve been trained not to step in when someone’s giving someone else a hard time. But I hate the look of frustration on his face. It’s adorable—hell, it’s kind of sexy, actually—but enough is enough.

“I can interpret,” I say and sign at the same time. My sim-com is absolutely shit after a long day, but three-word sentences usually get the point across.

His dark eyes dart to me and, yeah, no. He doesn’t look grateful. He looks more pissed off. ‘I didn’t ask you to.’

‘I know, but?—’

‘No.’ His fingers snap together hard enough I can almost hear it. ‘They can order like everyone else.’

His signs are clipped and sharp, larger than normal, and for some reason, the way he’s silently screaming at me has my dick getting hard.

Having stepped to the side, I see it now. He’s got a menu printed with the signs for each sandwich. And it’s clever—really. It’s amazingly clever. But having done this job for a long, long time, I also know how shit hearing people are at following written ASL.

But he’s said his piece, and I’m not about to butt in again.

The girl in front of me turns to me. “You know sign, right? Can you tell him?—”

“No,” I say. I look up at him, and my interpreter instincts are in high gear. I want to let him know what’s being said. But his jaw ticks like he’s daring me to do it, so I shove my hands into my pockets and shrug. “Just follow the menu.”

She turns back to him, and he taps the menu again.

“Screw this. This is fucking so stupid. Who even lets people like this park here if you can’t accommodate everyone?”

“He is accommodating you. It’s not his fault you’re lazy.”

Her eyes widen as she turns back to me. “Excuse you?”

“You heard me.” I’m not going to fight his battle, but also, fuck that. “You’re on a campus with Deaf teachers.”

“Uh, yeah. Who have translators or whatever,” she says, waving her hand at me.

“Interpreters, actually.”

She huffs at me once more.

‘Let her go.’ I see his hands moving in my periphery, and I turn. He’s deflated and looks less angry than before. I wonder how often this happens. I’m willing to bet he’s got a hearing people bingo card in that truck somewhere. I hope he buys himself something nice when he fills it.

I approach. ‘Am I good to order?’

He taps the menu sign, and I realize they’re all what are probably his own personal name signs for his food. They’re easy enough to follow—I think, and I can feel his eyes on me like a physical touch as I order.

He nods. ‘Drinks?’