The diner reeked of burnt grease and cheap-ass coffee Clint couldn’t force down anymore. He was halfway through choking on his bland breakfast when a voice sliced through the hum of the place—soft, pissed, and cracked at the edges.

“You really left me with this fucking mess, Ma?”

Clint didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Hell, he didn’t even want to. Why would even a damn person bring their drama in public places. Fuckin' hell.

He tilted his head, just a little, to scare the shit out of that damn brat to close their damn mouth or at least lower their voice the fuck down. But he stopped himself when he saw the glimpse of a young form in a hoodie, muttering at a crumpled piece of paper like it was giving them a damn aneurysm.

And then— “Where the hell am I supposed to find this fuckass Clint Flood? Not that I give two fucks about him.”

Clint froze mid-bite. The brat had just said his fucking name. His goddamn name.

He shifted, pretending to fix his seat but really trying to sneak a better look. The kid was clutching a worn-ass letter, probably older than their damn shoes.

The kid kept rambling, talking to a photo like it could talk back. “You died. Left me a shit ass letter saying he’s all I’ve got left? Fuck this shit, Ma—this is killing me.”

Clint’s gut twisted. He squinted and saw the signature—her name. From damn ages ago. One of those flings who fed his pleasures and desires, left him next thing in the morning, completely ass naked, and regrets it later.

He sat back, stone-faced, pretending none of it mattered. But his hands betrayed him, curling tight under the table, knuckles white. No fucking way. He bit the inside of his cheek as he cursed himself mentally.

You gotta be shitting me.