The morning sunlight slinked into Andrew and Daniel's apartment like it knew it was interrupting something sacred: the sleepy bro breakfast hour.

The living room still smelled faintly of buffalo wings, lemon-scented cleaning spray, and vinyl record sleeves that had recently carried the emotional weight of Taylor Swift's entire discography. Daniel was at the stove scrambling eggs like a Food Network contestant with no time limit, and Andrew was at the toaster, guarding their cinnamon raisin bagels like they were small treasures he personally invented.

Daniel yawned mid-scramble. "Bro… I had a dream we were contestants on Too Hot To Handle, but instead of a beach, it was just a haunted corn maze and the prize was gluten-free muffins."

Andrew blinked. "That is both specific and terrifying."

"I woke up craving carbs and emotional intimacy," Daniel muttered, poking at the eggs with a wooden spatula. "So—eggs it is."

Andrew slid the perfectly toasted bagels onto two plates. "What's the vibe today? Existential dread? Career panic? Casual bromance banter over breakfast?"

Daniel perked up. "Let's go with casual bromance banter and see if it devolves into emotional revelations by the time the dishes are done."

They sat at the table, steam rising from their mugs, the morning playlist humming softly in the background (today's choice: Taylor Swift's Red era, because fall vibes only).

Andrew took a bite of his bagel. "So when do we give up and start a failed podcast about emotionally damaged guys eating breakfast?"

Daniel grinned. "Soon as we figure out how to market 'Crying Over Scrambled Eggs.'"

Just as Andrew opened his mouth to say something wildly clever, Daniel's phone buzzed on the table.

He glanced at the screen. Then froze.

"Bro," he whispered. "It's a 978 number. That's local. That's Salem."

Andrew blinked. "Is it her?"

Daniel blinked back. "Not her her. Like, Starbucks her. Viking Hall. THE Starbucks."

Andrew nearly choked on his coffee. "Answer it! Don't just stare at it like it's going to recite your zodiac."

Daniel hit "Accept" and stood up, putting the call on speaker but immediately realizing that was a bad idea and switching to normal mode.

"Hi, this is Daniel Fields," he said, in a voice so formal Andrew nearly snorted into his mug.

There was a pause. Then, Daniel nodded. "Yes, I did apply last week… Absolutely, I'm still interested!"

Andrew mouthed IS IT GOOD?! from across the table, making intense hand gestures.

Daniel held up a thumbs up and a tight smile, trying not to bounce in place as he listened. "Oh wow—that's amazing, thank you. Yes, next week works for me. Any time... okay, Tuesday at 10 a.m. Got it. I'll bring a resume and references."

He hung up the phone slowly.

Andrew stared.

"Well?"

Daniel dropped into his chair like a victorious gladiator. "I GOT THE INTERVIEW."

Andrew stood up, hands raised. "YES! MY BOY'S GONNA BE THE BARISTA OF SALEM!"

Daniel beamed. "They said my application was thoughtful. Which I think means I wrote 'fluent in espresso culture and overly attached to fall drink menus.'"

"You absolute legend."

They high-fived mid-egg bite, then immediately started dancing in their chairs to Begin Again playing softly in the background, because what's a breakfast victory without a sad-pop-fueled chair shimmy?

As the excitement mellowed slightly, they went back to their plates.

Daniel grinned. "You're next, you know."

Andrew shrugged. "I mean, if Abercrombie Kids ever wants someone who can alphabetize small hoodies and emotionally recover from teenage flashbacks, I'm ready."

Daniel raised his mug. "To the Abercrombie Awakening."

They clinked cups, finished the last of their breakfast, and moved to the kitchen like synchronized dishwashing bros.

Andrew washed, Daniel dried, and they both dramatically hummed Enchanted like it was their shift anthem.

Then—Andrew's phone rang.

He froze.

Daniel stared. "No. Way."

Andrew slowly pulled it out of his pocket. "978 number. Peabody. This is it."

Daniel whispered, "Answer with confidence and minimal awkward silence."

Andrew nodded, cleared his throat, and picked up. "Hello, this is Andrew Clarke speaking."

Daniel, hovering behind him like a supportive stage mom, gave double thumbs up.

"Yes, I applied for the assistant manager position at Abercrombie Kids," Andrew said, trying not to pace. "Yes, I'm definitely interested in next steps… This weekend? Saturday? Absolutely."

His face lit up like the Target clearance aisle.

"Great, I'll be there. Thank you so much."

He hung up, turned around slowly…

Daniel whispered, "Did we just become job interview bros in the same twenty-minute window?!"

Andrew nodded. "Confirmed. Interview this Saturday. At the mall. It's real."

Daniel clutched his chest. "Oh my God. You're gonna be the cardigan king of Northshore."

Andrew smirked. "And you're about to oversteam some foam in Viking Hall."

They both cheered and did their sacred bro-handshake—an intricate series of claps, finger guns, and a final high-five turned accidental forehead bop.

Andrew laughed. "Okay, we've got a week to prepare. Resumes, practice questions, panic."

Daniel pointed dramatically. "And matching interview day outfits. I'm thinking business casual, emotionally devastated but resilient."

Andrew raised an eyebrow. "Like a sad indie film protagonist?"

"Exactly."

They cleaned up the kitchen, tossing dish towels over their shoulders like capes, heroes of the breakfast battlefield.

Their futures might still be uncertain. The world was full of awkward interviews and overpriced coffees and tiny cardigans waiting to be folded.

But for the first time in a while?

They had direction.

And more importantly—

They had each other.

Which, honestly?

Was the best part of the job.