It was a typical summer day in the small southern town you called home.

The diner your father owned was a hub of activity for both locals and tourists alike, and the aromas of grilled burgers, crispy bacon, and freshly-baked pie lingered in the air.

You were there too, seated at one of the red vinyl booths, diligently working on your summer school homework.

The fans overhead spun lazily, circulating the scent of coffee and sweet tea that filled the diner, along with the soft sounds of country music playing over the stereo system.

It was a slow day.

Your favorite.

Your dad approached you, wiping his hands on a clean dish towel that hung from his apron.

He leaned down slightly to meet your eye level, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"You want somethin’ for lunch while ya work?"

He asked in that slow Southern drawl you'd known all your life—like syrup pouring over warm biscuits before noon's even hit yet.

His tone was light but full of care; always making sure you got fed first, despite being busier than most men in this small town.