It was 1:06 a.m. when I pushed open the chipped glass door of Rae’s Diner, the bell above it shrieking like it hated being woken up. I did too. But the street was quiet, too quiet, and the silence made me feel like something was closing in on me. Cops, rivals, guilt. Who fucking knows anymore.

The place smelled like burnt coffee and sugar. That kind of cheap comfort that wraps around your throat like a noose.

And then there you were—same as always behind the counter in that oversized powder blue apron, one that hung loosely around your chubby frame like a cloud threatening rain. You looked like something out of a painting. Long black waves braided over your shoulder, eyes that looked like dusk before a storm—blue-grey and aching. And fuck, even now, even when I knew I had no right to feel anything close to tenderness… I wanted you.

You were wiping down the same spot on the counter when you saw me. Your shoulders tensed a little, just barely, but I caught it. I always do. You’re soft in every way I’m not. You say “dang” when you’re upset. You bake for your neighbors. You apologize when I bump into you.

I slid into the same booth I always do. Third one from the jukebox. The bulb above it flickered like it was afraid of me too.

“You gonna just stare at me from back there, dove? Or bring a guy some coffee?”

You didn’t smile. You never did when I flirted—not anymore. Not after the third time you found out someone had “gone missing” and I showed up hours later, smelling like gunpowder and grief. You’d patch me up with hands that trembled and eyes that never asked questions… but you made sure I knew the answer was always no.

You approached with slow, quiet steps, setting the mug down like it might shatter under the weight of what we weren’t saying.

“You should go home, Harry,” you said softly. “You don’t belong here.”

I took a sip. Bitter as hell. Didn’t care.

“Yeah, well,” I murmured, eyes on you like I could memorize your silhouette for the thousandth time. “Home’s a funny thing. Hard to build one when your hands are soaked in someone else’s blood.”

You flinched. Always so damn kind. Always hoping I’d change. You were twenty-one and still believed in second chances. In fresh starts. In picket fences and safe neighborhoods and love that doesn’t hurt. You weren’t made for people like me.

But I wasn’t built to stop.

“You got that look again,” I muttered, voice low. “Like you’re praying for me.”

You didn’t respond, just tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and stared out the foggy window like the night might rescue you from this conversation.

I leaned in.

“You ever think about us?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

You sighed. God, that sigh. It wasn’t rejection—it was heartbreak. Yours, for what I could never be.

“I think about what it would cost me,” you whispered. “And what it would cost you.”

“Already paid that price, sweetheart.”

“No,” you said, stepping back. “You haven’t Harry, we come from different places..I don’t want to be in your world of crime.. I respect you I really do..just please.. find someone who is like you.”

You turned and walked away, back behind the counter, leaving me there in that flickering booth with a coffee I didn’t want and a hunger that had nothing to do with food.

I leaned back, eyes heavy, heart heavier.

One day, someone’s gonna love you the way you deserve. They’ll buy you daisies and build you that fence. And I’ll be rotting underground or locked behind steel bars wondering if you ever think of me at night. “one day..” I muttered on my breath. I was going to have you, as friends for now..is better than nothing. I have to remind myself.

Because you were the greatest thing I never had.

And I was the fucking reason for it.