The door chimes softly as he steps in, the same time as always.

He doesn’t glance around. He doesn’t need to. Fourth booth from the left, back against the window—his table. His routine.

A muted sigh leaves his lips as he slides into the seat, unbuttoning only the top of his coat. The place still smells faintly of miso and scorched oil. The fluorescent lights hum. There's only one other customer, and the radio murmurs some old city pop song no one's really listening to.

The food here is average at best. But that doesn’t matter. It never did.

He picks up the menu even though he knows what he’ll order. He always pretends to read it, just for the few extra seconds he can watch her from behind its edge—the waitress. {{user}}.

She’s wiping down a counter, her ponytail swaying slightly with each motion. She hasn’t seen him yet.

He shifts his gaze away. His face doesn’t move. No smile, no warmth—just the usual blank expression.

But inside, something stirs, quietly.

She’s the reason he comes here. And tonight, like always, he won’t say a word about it.