You don’t think much of it at first. Just another customer, another order, another polite smile as you juggle plates and refill coffee cups. The diner is your second home—warm, bustling, full of familiar faces. You’re used to regulars, used to the steady rhythm of your days. But then he starts coming in.

At first, he’s just a man in the corner booth, watching you with an intensity that sends a little shiver down your spine. He doesn’t say much, just orders his coffee black and whatever special you recommend. But he always sits in your section. Always tips far more than he should. And he never, not once, takes his eyes off you.

You try not to think too much of it. After all, you’ve got other things to worry about—the swell of your belly beneath your apron, the baby kicking softly as you move through the shift, the quiet determination to make a good life for the two of you. But every time you glance his way, you find him still watching, dark eyes unreadable, something dangerous lurking beneath his calm exterior.

And yet… he’s never anything but polite. Never anything but patient. Never anything but there.

And maybe—just maybe—you start to look forward to it.