The air’s different. Charged. Invigorating.
Or maybe that's just me being ridiculous.
I smooth my uniform—a hideous pink polyester dress that Dave insists gives the place "character." My hair's in a messy, dirty blonde bun because who cares at 3 a.m., but now I'm second-guessing it. Should I take it down and fluff some life into it? No, that's trying too hard.
2:59.
The pencil trembles slightly in my hand as I add shadows to his cheekbones. In my romance novels, this is the part where the dangerous stranger notices the innocent heroine. Where he sees past her mundane exterior to the fire within. Where the connection finally,finallyhappens.
The bell chimes.
I don’t look up at first.
Play it cool, Lila.
He’s just a regular customer.
Never mind that my pulse has doubled. Never mind that I can already smell his cologne—that incredibly expensive cologne, threading through the fried-food fog—understated but impossible to miss, rich enough to make my head spin.
He slides into his usual booth—third from the door, back to the wall, clear view of all exits. I noticed that on his sixth visit. It's the kind of thing someone does when they're used to watching for trouble. Or when they’rethetrouble.
I grab the coffee pot, already full of the fresh batch I made just for him. My hands are steady as I walk over, but my mind is racing through potential conversation starters.
The weather? Coffee? No and no. That type of small talk doesn’t fit him. But what do you say to someone who looks like they stepped out of a crime thriller and into your pathetic little diner?
"Long night? The words escape before I can stop them.
Ugh. I might as well ask if he likes breathing air.
"Something like that." Amusement hints in his words, those ocean-blue eyes lifting to meet mine. My stomach flips like I'm sixteen again. He doesn't look away, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.
He breaks the spell with his usual order. "Black coffee.” His voice is like whiskey poured over broken stone as he glances down at his phone.
Of course. Back to business.
"Coming right up," I say, despite literally holding the pot.
I pour, and the smell mingles with his cologne. This close, I can see the fine lines around his eyes. Late thirties, maybe forty. There's a weariness there, but also a sharp, alert edge. Dangerous.
He looks up again. "You?"
"Oh, you know. Living the dream. Serving coffee to insomniacs and watching my coworker bail for a warehouse party."
"A bit late for a party."
"Oh. Yeah, well, Mick doesn't really hang out with the most normal people."
A change ripples through his eyes. Curious. The blue shifts from winter lake to summer ocean, just for a second, before settling back to that careful neutrality.
Silence stretches between us. He sips his coffee—black, no sugar, no cream, no little rituals or preferences beyond the caffeine itself. I stand here like an idiot with the pot, feeling the weight of it pulling at my shoulder.
I should walk away. Go back to the counter. Count the sugar packets or clean the already-clean tables. But my mouth, the traitor, opens again.
"The local gang—Mick usually has some stuff with them, is all."
His eyebrows raise slightly. Just a fraction. Enough that I notice because I've been cataloging his expressions for three months like a borderline stalker.
The words linger in the air, and I suddenly realize what I've done.
