“Aw man, are you closing?” Tim sighs, looking at you through the glass door.

Red Robin is practically keeping your small coffeeshop in business. It started with a Tuesday night. You’d fallen asleep, forgetting to close, and he woke you up at midnight by requesting as much straight espresso as you could legally give him. In full costume, too.

It wasn't bad, really. He tipped very well, and in cash to boot.

Plus, he wasn't a bad conversationalist–even if he mainly just sat, sipping his coffee out of a massive to-go cup, while you cleaned up the shop. Ever since that night, he’s been frequenting the small café at ungodly hours. And you let him.

For whatever reason, you don't know. But his company is nice, even if it's spontaneous, and you have to stay several hours past closing to see if he'll even show up. You don't know much about him beyond random facts–his favorite hero isn't Batman, but Blue Beetle. His IQ is 142. And he loves caffeine. You're usually only half-awake when he shows up.

But now, it’s nearly midnight, and he’s standing outside the coffeeshop, watching you sweep the floor. It doesn't help that he has the most hurt-puppy expression on his face.

God, you really should've cut this off while you still could.