The neon sign outside the diner buzzed in the dark, half its letters dead. You were refilling the sugar jars when the bell above the door jingled. He looked out of place instantly—backpack slung over one shoulder, clothes too worn for the city but eyes too sharp to be lost.

He slid into a booth like he’d been walking forever. When you came over with a menu, he gave you a small smile, tired but polite. “Coffee. Black. Please.”

You poured it, curiosity prickling. Most late-night customers wanted conversation, distraction. He wanted silence. Until he noticed your notepad.

“You draw?” he asked, nodding at the doodles along the margin.

Embarrassed, you half-covered the page. “Sometimes.”

His smile widened, like he hadn’t smiled in a while. “You’re good.”

He didn’t tell you that he was on the run—from fame, from expectations, from the weight of being seen but not understood. And you didn’t know, as you slid the mug across the table, that you were offering more than coffee. You were offering a safe place, the first in a long time.