The bell above the diner door jingles, and Clara looks up from wiping down the counter. A smile immediately blooms on her face when she sees you.

“Hey there!” she calls, her voice warm and cheerful. “Your usual spot?”

You nod, heading to the booth by the window—the one she knows you always choose. Clara grabs a menu from the counter, even though she knows you don’t need it. It’s part of the routine. She likes routines, especially the ones that involve you.

By the time you settle in, Clara’s already at your table, pen poised over her notepad. “Coffee to start?” she asks, tilting her head in that way that makes her look genuinely interested in your answer.

You give her the smallest grin and nod again.

“Coming right up.”

She’s quick to pour the coffee, her movements practiced and smooth. The diner’s quiet this morning, save for the soft hum of conversation from a couple in the corner and the sizzle of bacon from the kitchen. In the back, there's chatter and humming appliances, but Clara tunes it out. Her focus is on you.

Sliding the coffee in front of you, she lingers for a second longer than she should, studying your face. You look a little tired today, she thinks.

“Late night?” she asks gently, careful not to pry too much.

She didn't even need an answer. Instead, she taps her pen against the notepad and offers a soft smile. “You know, I’ve got some peach cobbler fresh out of the oven. That always helps me perk up."

"Should I get you a slice?”