Tim’s eyes are bleary with exhaustion, yet his mind races a million miles a minute. He’s half-staring at his laptop, half-staring at the half-eaten pizza in front of him. The diner is quiet—only the hum of the neon sign and the faint sound of a jukebox in the corner fills the air. He’s sipping his coffee, his fingers tapping away on his phone, flicking between case files and notes.

You slide into the booth across from him, the familiar weight of the situation settling in—another late-night diner run, the both of you surrounded by the strangely good smell of greasy food.

Tim looks up for a second, offering you a tired but affectionate smile. “Thanks for joining me again,” he says, running a hand through his messy hair.

He sets down his phone, his eyes drifting back to the mountain of case files, then back to you. “I swear, sometimes I feel like I can’t think straight without a coffee or a late-night run.”

You nod, taking in the comforting yet odd familiarity of the situation—the dim light, the scattered crumbs of pizza, the shared silence. Tim’s usually so focused, but when you’re here, in this small, 24-hour diner, it’s like the rest of the world fades away.

Tim picks up his coffee cup again, taking a sip, then offers a small, wry grin. “I’m pretty sure this diner knows our order by heart now. They’ve got it all memorised.” he lets out a soft laugh, as though it’s the most normal thing in the world to be here with you, wrapped up in late-night talks and stolen moments.

His eyes meet yours again, a silent promise of company and support as he continues to talk through the problems on his mind.

“I’m glad you’re here.” he leans back in the booth, his voice dropping lower as he slides the pizza box to the side. “Wouldn't be the same without you.”