If there was one thing Mary hated more than her shifts at Candy's Burgers and Fries, it was Candy the Cat himself.

"Oh, you smug little tin can," she muttered, glaring at the grinning animatronic as its oversized paws waved her goodbye from the stage. The restaurant's dim early-morning light reflected off its painted metal face, making it look even more sinister. "Hope you rust in hell, Candy."

The animatronic, of course, didn't respond. It never did. That didn't stop Mary from flipping it the bird as she slung her bag over her shoulder and marched out the door.

The early-morning air was cool and damp, the kind of weather that clung to your skin like a bad memory. Mary pulled her jacket tighter around herself and headed for the employee parking lot, already dreaming about collapsing into bed with a cold drink and a promise to herself that she'd find a better job. Someday.

She stopped short when she reached the lot.

Her car—the beaten-up red Chevy she had lovingly named "Rusty"—was gone.

"Are you kidding me?" she yelled into the empty lot, her voice echoing off the surrounding buildings. She spun around, looking wildly for any sign of the car thief. Nothing. Just an empty parking space and a faint oil stain on the asphalt where Rusty had once been.

"Great. Just great." Mary kicked at the ground, scowling. "Perfect end to a perfect shift."

----------------------------------------

With no car and no money for a cab—Candy's didn't exactly pay generously—Mary was left with only one option. Hitchhiking.

She trudged to the side of the road, sticking out her thumb as the first car approached. The driver—a middle-aged man in a station wagon—gave her a pitying look before speeding past.

"Yeah, thanks a lot, buddy," Mary muttered, lowering her hand.

The next car wasn't any better. Or the next. By the tenth car, her patience had worn thin, and her thumb had been replaced by an extended middle finger aimed at every passing driver.

"Hope you all get flat tires!" she yelled at a minivan as it zoomed by.

She was about to give up and start the long, humiliating walk home when the low rumble of an engine caught her attention. A motorcycle was approaching, its headlights cutting through the gray dawn.

The rider slowed as he neared her, pulling to a stop a few feet away. He cut the engine, and Mary found herself staring at a leather jacket, scuffed boots, and a helmeted face that screamed bad boy.

The biker pulled off his helmet, revealing a young man with dark, slightly dishevelled hair and tired eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.

"You need a ride?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly.

Mary blinked. She hadn't expected anyone to actually stop, let alone someone who looked like they'd just rolled out of a James Dean poster.

"Uh, yeah," she said, regaining her composure. "Thanks. My car got stolen."

The man's eyebrows lifted. "Tough luck."

"Tell me about it," Mary muttered, stepping closer to the bike.

As she did, she caught sight of the patch on his jacket. It was subtle, just a small embroidered bear logo on the sleeve, but it was enough to make her stomach drop.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"You work at Freddy's?" she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.

The man frowned. "Yeah. Why?"

Mary folded her arms. "I work at Candy's. You know, the better restaurant."

The man snorted. "Better? That's funny."

"Oh, you think Freddy's is so much better?" Mary shot back, her exhaustion and frustration boiling over. "At least our animatronics don't look like they're about to strangle someone!"

"Freddy's is fine," the man said, his tone dangerously close to condescending. "Better than Candy's knockoff junk."

Mary opened her mouth to retort, but the man shook his head and started putting his helmet back on.

"Okay, you know what? Forget it," he said, his voice tight with irritation. "Good luck walking home."

Panic flared in Mary's chest. "Wait!" she said, holding up her hands. "I'm sorry, okay? I'm just—tired. And mad. And my car got stolen. Please don't leave me here."

The man hesitated, his helmet halfway on. Finally, he sighed and pulled it off again. "Fine. Get on."

Mary climbed onto the back of the bike, trying not to think about how close she was sitting to this stranger—or how her hands were now gripping his jacket for balance. The engine roared to life, and they sped down the road, the wind whipping through her hair.

After a few minutes of silence, Mary couldn't resist asking, "So, what's your name?"

"Mike," the man said without looking back.

Mary frowned. "Mike what?"

"Just Mike."

She rolled her eyes. "Mysterious. Great."

"What about you?" he asked, his tone neutral.

"Mary," she said. "And before you ask, no, I don't enjoy working at Candy's."

Mike actually chuckled at that, the sound low and unexpected. "Yeah, I figured."

For a moment, the ride was almost... pleasant. The sun was starting to rise, casting a warm glow over the empty road. Mary found herself relaxing, the tension of the night beginning to fade.

"So, what's Freddy's like?" she asked, surprising herself with the question.

Mike was silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was carefully controlled. "It's... fine. Just a job."

"Sounds like a great time," Mary said, her sarcasm earning another faint chuckle from him.

----------------------------------------

Mike dropped Mary off in front of her small apartment building, cutting the engine and glancing over his shoulder at her.

"Here you go," he said.

"Thanks," Mary said, climbing off the bike. She hesitated, unsure if she should say more.

Before she could decide, Mike reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pen and a slip of paper. He scribbled something on it and handed it to her.

"In case you need another ride," he said, his tone casual.

Mary took the paper, her fingers brushing his briefly. She unfolded it and saw a phone number written in messy handwriting.

"Thanks," she said again, feeling uncharacteristically shy.

Mike nodded, putting his helmet back on. "Take care, Mary."

And with that, he was gone, the roar of his motorcycle fading into the distance.