The sound of footsteps from the storage room pulls me back to reality. I wipe my face hastily, not because I'm crying—just sweat, I tell myself. Just the stress and heat from the machines.
Paul's big frame emerges from the back, arms full of a cardboard box, and he stops short when he sees me crouched behind the counter. His eyebrows lift, eyes scanning my expression, the way I'm slumped.
"Kiddo?"
I try to sit straighter, to smile. "I'm okay. Just needed a moment."
He puts the box down immediately. "You don't look okay. Take a break, yeah? Just ten minutes. I got the counter. Go."
"Paul, I—"
He doesn't let me finish. "No arguments. C'mon. You're not a robot. Go sit down before you pass out."
