Sophia
Noah asked for my number on a Wednesday, right after handing over a corrected invoice for a delivery mix up the day before.
"In case something changes with the route again," he said, holding his phone out like the request was the most casual thing in the world. "Easier than me showing up and finding the door locked because of some scheduling error on our end."
"Sure," I said, taking his phone and typing my number in, trying not to think too hard about the small flutter in my chest as I handed it back. "Just don't spam me with delivery updates at three in the morning."
"No promises," he said, and the small smile that followed made my stomach do something I chose to ignore.
I didn't think much more about it after that, at least not during the busy stretch of the afternoon. It was
