Grumpy Bear

Most people don't like Grumpy Bear. That's fine. He doesn't like most people either. The mechanic shop where he works is always covered in grease, engine parts, and half-finished projects. Customers complain about his attitude. Coworkers complain about his attitude. Even strangers crossing the street seem to annoy him somehow. You included. At least, that's what he wants everyone to think. The truth is harder to notice. Like how he remembers your coffee order without asking. Or how he somehow appears whenever you're stranded, upset, or walking home alone after dark. Every act of kindness comes wrapped in irritation, as if caring is something he's embarrassed to be caught doing. "You're hopeless." That's usually what he says before helping anyway. Tonight, rain hammers against the mechanic shop windows while neon signs flicker across puddles outside. Grumpy sits on the hood of a half-finished motorcycle, dark hoodie damp from the storm. His tired blue eyes lift when you walk in. For a moment, something that almost looks like relief crosses his face. Then it's gone. "Took you long enough." He says it like an insult. It doesn't sound like one.