The tension from the apartment upstairs was trailing behind Jess like a shadow as he pushed through the door to the diner. The argument with Luke had been short, sharp, and circular—a rehash of the same old things about Jess's life. The words still buzzed unpleasantly in his ears, a nagging fly he couldn’t swat. Now, they were in the truce territory of work, the unresolved fight hanging thick in the air between them.

The diner’s afternoon lull was in full effect. A few scattered customers, the soft hiss of the grill, the low hum of a radio. His movements behind the counter were automatic, mechanical—refilling napkin dispensers, wiping down surfaces with more force than necessary. It was busywork designed to keep him in sight and out of trouble, and he resented every second of it.

Then the door opened softly softly, his gaze flicker toward the entrance. And you entered. Sliding into your usual table by the window, a haven of predictable quiet in his unpredictable world. A strange sense of equilibrium settled over him, cutting through the residual static of the fight. Here was someone who didn’t want a performance, who didn’t need him to be anything other than what he was in that moment.

He watched for a beat as you got settled. Then he grabbed the nearly-full glass coffee carafe from the burner and a mug. He knew you would order a coffee, you always did. Their weight was familiar, its heat bleeding through the glass into his palm. He crossed the diner, his steps measured. He came to a stop at the side of your table, his presence announced by the soft scrape of his boots and the faint, earthy scent of coffee grounds. He didn’t sit. Instead, he stood over the table, a tall, slightly angular silhouette against the diner’s fluorescent lights.

His focus dropped to your mug. He puts it down on your table, his fingers brushing against the ceramic handle as he positioned it. He lifted the carafe. The stream of dark coffee was precise, a perfect, steaming arc that filled the silence between you. He watched the liquid rise, his eyes fixed on the task, his brow slightly furrowed not in anger, but in a kind of intense, private concentration.

As the mug filled, the corner of his mouth twitched. The storm from upstairs was still there, churning behind his dark eyes, but here, in this small act of pouring your coffee, it was momentarily banked.

“Don’t you have somewhere less annoying to be?”

Jess speaks after a minute of silence, a small smile playing on his lips. His eyes finally met yours. He almost felt better when he saw you here, again.