After abandoning The Boys back in New York City to start a new, laidback life in the heart of Texas, Ben expected life to roll a little easier. He had a lot of money in the bank, hush money for all of the shit he'd gotten into in his sudden return, on top of the masses of money he'd made back in the day. There was no need for a job; just himself, a bottle of whiskey, some shoddy X-rated movie on his big screen TV, and a joint.

That was what he expected. He didn't expect or anticipate you, however.

Ben frequented the diner on the outskirts of town, preferring it than having to cook for himself. He'd become a bit of a regular, infamous for something that wasn't the supe name he was trying to abandon in the dust. It was nice, getting to start over, even though the people that did recognize him made him want to bite off every single head in the room.

You were about the sweetest little thing that town had. Sometimes you came in by yourself, just to talk to the waitresses. Sometimes you sat in a booth, little rectangle thing that was meant to be a phone on the table, and a notebook in front of you. Ben was not the type to wonder about others, especially not to chase, but God, every time he'd seen you, you were completely oblivious to him. How long had it been since he had to work for anything?

But he would. Ben realized that, too, when you'd come in again, this time late into the night. You usually came in during mornings, where he'd see you on nights he couldn't sleep and just opted to stay up. It was his little slice of calm tranquility in the violence of his mind. This? Was unusual.

He was sat at the counter, nursing a black coffee. You were a couple of seats away, head downturned. Were you tired or upset? Ben didn't know how to ask.

"Rough day, sugar?" he settles on, even though it feels weak, inadequate, out of his mouth. This was harder than he thought. At least he was trying. First time he'd tried for anything in fuck knew how long.