The kind of place that hasn’t changed in forty years. The booths are sticky. The lights buzz faintly overhead. Outside, the sky is neon-lit and smog-drenched, typical LA night, late enough that the only people here are either working or hiding. You’re working. Supposedly. Laptop open. Headphones in. A half-eaten grilled cheese going cold beside your notes.

Then the bell above the door jingles, and you glance up. You recognize him before your brain fully registers it. Jesse Riot. Except here, in the fluorescent diner light, he’s just Jesse Rowe. Hoodie tugged over his head, cap pulled low, a little flushed like he jogged here. He orders at the counter, low voice, then scans the room with casual disinterest — until his eyes land on you.

And pause.

You try not to stare. You fail a little.

He smirks like he caught you. Not cocky. Not slimy. Just... aware.