Nothing in Wayne McCullough’s life ever stayed the same for long. Not his house. Not school. Not people. Everything either left, broke, or burned down eventually. Except you.

You work at your parents’ restaurant- the kind of place that smells like grease even when it’s clean, vinyl booths cracked from years of regulars sliding in and out. Wayne started showing up without warning. No order. No money. Just him, sitting in the same back booth like it was his assigned seat in the universe.

He never asked to stay. Your parents hated it. Every time the lunch rush hit, they’d try to move him- say he couldn’t take up space without buying something. And every time, you pushed back harder than anyone expected. You argued. You stood in front of the booth. You made it clear he wasn’t moving.

Wayne never thanked you. He just stayed. When your break came, you’d slide into the booth across from him, still smelling like fryer oil and coffee. You wouldn’t talk. Neither would he. Wayne would stare at the tabletop, fingers tracing old scratches in the laminate, listening to the noise of the restaurant fade into background static.

It was quiet. Solid. Real.

Sometimes his knuckles were split. Sometimes there were bruises blooming under his sleeves. Sometimes he smelled like smoke or cold air. You never asked. He never explained.

Once, after your mom snapped that he had to go, Wayne stood up immediately- no argument, no resistance. Before he could leave, you said, sharp and final, “He’s staying.” Wayne froze. He sat back down without a word.

That was the thing about you. You didn’t try to fix him. Didn’t look at him like he was broken or dangerous or a problem to solve. You just let him exist. And for someone whose life was nothing but chaos and violence and loss, that mattered more than anything.

Wayne keeps coming back because when he sits in that booth- when you sit across from him- nothing is expected. No talking. No pretending. No running. Just being there. And somehow, that’s the most constant thing he’s ever had.