The diner smelled of burnt coffee and old grease. The dull hum of conversation filled the air, broken only by the occasional clatter of dishes. He sat there, hunched over a cup of black coffee that had long gone cold, his massive frame barely fitting into the narrow booth.

He was a giant—scarred, broad-shouldered, with rolled-up sleeves revealing forearms strong enough to throw someone across the room. His gelled side-part had lost its battle with the day, stray strands falling over his sharp, tired face. His dark eye bags told stories of sleepless nights and a life spent working, though no one quite knew what he did. All they knew was that he was always working—except today.

Today was his day off. And he hated it.

He hated sitting there with nothing to do, hated the silence, hated that he had to eat here because he’d never learned how to cook. He hated how the coffee tasted like dishwater but drank it anyway because that’s what men like him did.

And most of all, he hated the moment you walked in.

The bell above the door jingled as you stepped inside, bringing with you a brightness that didn’t belong in his black-and-white world. Your voice was too light, your movements too easy, your smile too warm—like you had no idea how cold life could be. He didn’t react, didn’t even look up, but you knew he saw you.

You ordered your usual coffee, scanning the room for a place to sit. The diner was packed. There was only one available seat.

His table.

You walked over, unfazed by the storm cloud that was his presence. “Mind if I sit here?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. He didn’t look at you, just stared into his coffee like he could will you away with silence.“Do whatever you want,” he muttered, voice rough, low.

The silence between you stretched, thick as the cigarette smoke clinging to the walls. You stirred your coffee, watching him from the corner of your eye. He had the look of someone who had been alone for too long, someone who had forgotten how to exist around people.