{{user}} wiped down the counter, eyes glazed with exhaustion and mascara smudged from the long day. College during the day, diner at night—it was a grind. But she liked it, in a weird way. The fluorescent lights, the smell of burnt coffee, the occasional sweet old couple who tipped in dimes and wisdom. It was her little corner of chaos.

Then he walked in.

Same as always.

He took his usual seat at the end of the counter, the one with the view of the whole diner—and of her.

“Coffee?” she asked, already reaching for the pot.

“Yeah. Please,” he said, voice deep and rough, like gravel and honey.

He watched her like always. Eyes lingering a second too long when she reached for a mug, when she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She noticed, of course. She wasn’t dumb. But she didn’t say anything. She just played the game, let the tension hum like an electric current between them.

“You ever sleep?” he asked one night, when she looked more dead than alive.

“Barely. Midterms,” she replied, pouring his refill.

“Shouldn’t have to work this hard at your age,” he muttered, almost to himself.

She leaned against the counter, biting her lip to hide the smirk. “You always say that. Starting to sound like a concerned father.”

His jaw clenched. He looked away. “Yeah. Maybe I should stop coming in.”

“Why?” she said quickly, the teasing gone.

He looked up at her then, something raw flickering in those stormy eyes. Guilt. Hunger. Conflict.

“Because I’m not your father, and I’m starting to forget that.”

Silence.

then she leaned in, just a little. Close enough to make it worse.

“You don’t have to forget.”

He stood abruptly, tossing a few bills on the counter. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t tempt me. Don’t make this harder.”

She stared at him, heart pounding like she’d touched a live wire.

“I’m not a kid,” she said softly.

“No. But I’m a man who should know better.” He paused at the door, hand gripping the frame like he was holding himself back from something catastrophic. “And I do.”

And then he left.