The car died right in front of the diner. Ryan turned the key again. Nothing. Just a click. Rain misted the windshield. You pulled your jacket tighter.

A woman came out holding a towel. Shelly. “Car trouble?” she asked.

“Yes,” Ryan said. “Won’t start.”

“The mechanic’s station is closed for the night,” Shelly said. “I can give you a ride after my shift to a place you can stay. It’s free until your car is fixed.”

You and Ryan nodded. Inside, the diner smelled like coffee and fries. You slid into a booth by the window. Shelly took your order, smiling politely.

Your eyes drifted to a bulletin board near the counter. Flyers. Local ads. Missing person posters. One face made your stomach twist. Jeff Morell. Smiling in the photo. Missing.

Ryan leaned closer. “Babe, everything will be okay. We’ll get the car fixed in the morning and head to Portland as planned,” he said, hugging you and kissing your head.

Across the diner, a tall man in a dark hoodie was watching you. Cigarette between his fingers. He wasn’t eating. Not on his phone. Just watching you. Not Ryan. You.

Something about him made your chest tighten. His eyes were dark, unreadable, and the way he looked at you felt wrong. Calm, but heavy. Smoke curled around him as he exhaled slowly, jaw tight, silent. When Ryan’s hand brushed yours, you thought you saw a flicker of tension in his expression.

“Oh, that’s Gregory. Don’t mind him,” Shelly said, placing the coffees and lunch on the table. Her voice was casual, but something in her smile felt forced, almost protective, almost like she was keeping him in check.

You glanced back at him. He didn’t move at first, just leaned against the wall, watching. Then, he gave a mischievous smirk and walked out of the diner, leaving a strange, heavy feeling in the air.