Connor's lungs burned as he hauled the final, overflowing trash bag over the edge of the dumpster. The heavy plastic groaned, followed by the wet thud of refuse hitting the bottom. He leaned against the brick wall of the alley, wiping a mixture of soot and sweat from his forehead with a grime-streaked sleeve.
Just one more shift, he thought, staring at his calloused palms. Just one more shift and maybe I can afford a decent meal.
A sharp ding echoed through the narrow alley. Connor pulled a phone with a spiderweb-cracked screen from his pocket. The name on the display made his stomach drop: Mr. Williams (Landlord).
He let it ring three times, tempted to let it go to voicemail, but he knew that would only make the old man angrier.
"Mr. Williams, hello—"
"Save it, Connor!" the voice boomed, distorted by the poor speaker. "I'm done with the sob stories. You're a joke. If the rent isn't in my hand by tomorrow morning, your boxes hit the curb. You hear me, loser? Tomorrow!"
The line went dead. Connor squeezed the phone so hard his knuckles turned white. The frustration wasn't just a weight in his chest anymore; it was a physical ache. He checked his watch.
5:15 PM. His heart hammered against his ribs. The blind date. He didn't have time to go home, didn't have time to shower, and certainly didn't have the money to be here.
"Hey!"
A melodic voice sliced through the alley's silence. Connor turned. Standing at the mouth of the alley was a woman who looked like a hallucination. Her blonde hair was perfectly coiffed, her heels clicked against the pavement with expensive precision, and the gold hardware on her designer bag caught the afternoon sun.
She looked at the grime-covered walls, then at him, her nose wrinkling as if she'd walked into a sewer. "I'm looking for a Connor Miller. He lives... well, he said he lived around here. Do you know him?"
Connor froze. He looked down at his grease-stained work shirt and the dirt under his fingernails. She was looking right at him, yet her eyes moved past him as if he were part of the garbage he'd just thrown away.
He took a step forward, his voice stuck in his throat for a second. "I'm Connor. You... you must be Lola."
The woman stopped dead. Her eyes raked over him—from his tattered boots to his sweat-matted hair. A twitch of disbelief crossed her face, followed by a slow, mocking realization.
"You're joking... right?"
Connor felt the heat rise to his cheeks. He offered a hand, a reflex of politeness he'd been raised with. "Nice to meet you."
Lola stared at his hand as if it were a poisonous snake. She reached out, her fingertips barely brushing his for a fraction of a second before she yanked them back. She immediately pulled a floral silk handkerchief from her bag, scrubbing her palm with a look of pure disgust.
"I... I thought we could go to the bistro around the corner," Connor managed, forcing a smile that felt like it was breaking his face.
The restaurant was a sanctuary of soft jazz and the expensive clink of silver on porcelain—a world away from the alley. Connor pulled out a chair for Lola, trying to be the gentleman his mother had taught him to be. She sat, but her body was stiff, her eyes darting around as if worried someone she knew might see her.
"Server, a bottle of the house red, please," Connor said. It was the only thing on the menu he could potentially afford if he skipped lunch for a week.
Lola leaned back, crossing her legs. "So," she began, her voice dropping the fake sweetness from the phone calls. "What is it you actually do, Connor? Your profile picture... you looked different. Successful."
Connor's heart skipped. He looked down at his hands, trying to hide the stains. "I borrowed those clothes for the photo. And... I might have edited the background a bit. I'm a janitor, Lola. I work at the medical plaza."
The silence that followed was deafening. Lola didn't just look disappointed; she looked insulted. She let out a sharp, bitter laugh that drew heads from the neighboring tables.
"A janitor? You're serious?" She leaned forward, her eyes narrow. "How much do you even make a day?"
Connor swallowed hard. "Ten dollars on a good day. Tips vary, and—"
"Ten dollars?" she shrieked, no longer caring who heard. "Ten? I spend more than that on a bottle of water! Even if you worked for a hundred years, you couldn't afford a single month of my life."
Connor's shoulders slumped. The hope he'd carried into this date—the idea that maybe someone could see past the bank account—shattered. "Lola, I work hard. I'm honest. I thought we had a connection..."
"Connection?" She hissed. "Don't embarrass yourself. You're a janitor. That's all you'll ever be. You're a bottom-feeder."
The patrons around them were whispering now. The air in the room felt thick, suffocating.
"I'll work harder," Connor pleaded, his voice a low, desperate hum. "I have plans, I—"
Lola didn't let him finish. She grabbed her wine glass and, with a flick of her wrist, sent the dark red liquid splashing across Connor's face.
The restaurant went silent. Gasps echoed from every corner. Connor sat frozen, the cold wine dripping off his chin and soaking into his only clean-ish shirt. He didn't wipe it away. He just felt a deep, hollow silence growing inside him.
"You are pathetic!" Lola stood up, slamming her bag onto the table. "I wasted weeks talking to a peasant. I feel dirty just sitting in this chair." She pointed at his phone. "Look at that fossil! I have the latest iPhone, and you're carrying a piece of junk. Do you really think a man like you deserves a woman like me?"
Connor stood up slowly. He didn't yell. He didn't fight back. He just looked at her, his eyes weary. "You're right. I don't deserve this. Please, just leave. You've had your fun."
A cruel smirk played on Lola's lips. "I'll leave. But first, since you're so proud of being a janitor... do your job. Lick the wine off my shoe, and I'll call it even."
The room erupted in hushed titters. Someone in the back laughed out loud. "He's filthy anyway," a voice whispered. "Look at him, he's totally out of his league."
Connor's fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. "I'm not doing that," he said, his voice surprisingly steady.
"Do it!" Lola snapped. "Or I'll tell everyone in this city what a fraud you are."
"That's quite enough."
The voice was like silk-wrapped steel. A woman stepped out from a corner table, her presence commanding the entire room. She had sharp, intelligent brown eyes and an air of effortless authority.
"It isn't a 'nice' thing to humiliate people, Lola," the woman said, her gaze unwavering. "He is a human being. Something you clearly know nothing about."
Lola turned, her face twisting. "Stay out of this. Why are you defending a low-life?"
"His low, honest life is worth ten of yours," the woman snarled.
"And who do you think you are?" Lola sneered, looking the woman up and down.
"I'm the person who owns the floor you're standing on. And I'm telling you to get out of my restaurant. Now."
Lola blanched. She scrambled for her purse, shooting Connor one final, venomous look. "You'll regret this!" she hissed before storming toward the door, her heels clattering frantically.
The woman turned to Connor. Her expression shifted instantly from cold fury to genuine concern. "Are you alright?"
"I... yeah." Connor took a breath, feeling the adrenaline start to fade. "Thank you. You didn't have to do that."
She reached into her pocket and handed him a soft, linen handkerchief. "Clean your face. And don't let people like her define your worth. She's small. You aren't."
"Thanks... Miss?"
"Olivia Brooks," she said with a faint, enigmatic smile. "And you are?"
"Connor Miller."
"Nice to meet you, Connor. Next time, stand up for yourself a little sooner. You have a strength in you that most men in this room lack."
Connor pulled a crumpled twenty-dollar bill from his pocket—his last bit of cash—and laid it on the table. "For the wine. And for the trouble." He gave her a small, respectful nod. "Goodbye, Miss Brooks."
As he walked toward the exit, Olivia watched him. There was something about the way he carried himself—even soaked in wine and insulted—that didn't match his clothes. He was calm. He was grounded.
Her phone buzzed in her hand. She glanced at it and groaned. Her sister, Grace.
"No, Grace!" Olivia snapped into the phone, her voice echoing in the now-quiet restaurant. "I'm not marrying that arrogant prick you picked out. You don't get to choose my life for me!" She hung up, her chest heaving with irritation.
She looked back at the door. Connor was reaching for the handle. An impulsive, wild thought struck her—one that would solve her sister's meddling and give her the control she craved.
"Mr. Miller, wait!" Olivia called out.
Connor paused, his hand on the brass handle, and turned back. He looked confused, a bit tired, but undeniably handsome in the dim light.
He'll do, she thought. She took a deep breath, the words tumbling out before she could talk herself out of them.
"Please... marry me."
Connor froze, the door half-open, as the world outside seemed to stop turning.