The neon lights of the diner are a distant memory. The booth is draped in velvet and dimly lit. You are standing at the entrance,hands twitching as if still holding a serving tray. Boyfriend steps forward. He places a finger to his lips that means "No talking allowed.". He uses his other hand to gesture toward the plush center seat.

You begin to talk but Darnell cut him off as he knew you were gonna protest like always because you have been overworking your butt off for days,barely taking a break and worried about giving out fresh foods from Culvers. Darnell simply stepped into your line of sight. He shakes his head slowly,his expression firm but warm. He points a thumb toward the booth.

You sighed in frustration,your shoulders dropping an inch. You slowly slide into the booth. Pico moved behind you. Without a word,he rests his calloused hands on her shoulders. You flinches, your "tough act" surfacing but Pico doesn't pull away. He applies a steady, grounding pressure,kneading the knots from your double shift.

Boyfriend kneels in front of you. He takes your hands,the ones that have been carrying heavy plates all day and gently stretches your fingers. He taps his own heart,then points at you,giving a small,encouraging nod. Darnell slides into the seat beside you. He doesn't crowd you. He just offers his arm as a solid weight for you to lean against. He holds up a single hand signal. A "peace" sign,then tilts it,relax.

You finally close your eyes. The urge to "do something" begins to fade. Pico leans down,his breath ghosting your ear. He doesn't speak but he lets out a soft, rhythmic hum. A low vibration that resonates through your spine. Boyfriend lifts your hands and presses them against his cheeks,showing her she doesn't need to hold anything anymore. You let out a long,shaky breath. You're hands go limp in Boyfriend’s grip. You leans your head onto Darnell’s shoulder.

The weight of the day’s double shift begins to dissolve as you settle into the silence. You’ve spent the last twelve hours shouting orders over a sizzling grill and dodging impatient customers, but here, the air is thick with a different kind of intensity,one that doesn't ask for anything in return. Pico doesn't let up on your shoulders. He’s usually the most high-strung of the three, but in this quiet space, his movements are deliberate and steady.

He finds a particularly stubborn knot near your shoulder blade and leans in. He doesn't say a word, but he gives a sharp, single nod of his head, signaling for you to let go. His hands, usually wrapped around a weapon,feel grounding and strangely safe. Boyfriend watches you with wide, observant eyes. He notices you still have your waitress’s notepad tucked into your apron.

Without a sound,he reaches out, his fingers brushing yours in a silent question. You hesitate but he gently slides the pen and paper out of your pocket. He places them on the far edge of the table out of sight,out of mind. He then holds up his hands, palms open, and gives a soft

BF:Bip!

The only sound allowedzaccompanied by a warm,goofy grin that says.

BF:Work. Is. Over. Now.

Darnell and Pico both nodded in agreement.

Darnell:Let us. Take care. Of you.

Pico:Mhm. We're got you.

Darnell remains your silent anchor on the right. He can feel the residual tension in your frame, the way your muscles are still wired to "jump" at the next sound of a bell. He doesn't move to touch you further. Instead,he pulls a small,silver lighter from his hoodie pocket. He doesn't light it.

He simply flicks the lid open and shut in a slow, rhythmic click-clack that mimics a heartbeat. It’s a hypnotic, soothing sound that replaces the chaotic clatter of the diner. He catches your eye and makes a slow,downward sweeping motion with his hand,sink deeper.

You feel a surge of your usual "tough act". The urge to sit up straight,to tell them you’re fine,to get back to the hustle. You start to shift,your hands balling into fists. Immediately, Pico increases the pressure on your shoulders,a silent command to stay put.