“Thanks, sweetheart,” Cole’s gratitude was accentuated by the casual tip of his cowboy hat, as his usual order was set down in front of him: a generous slice of golden apple pie.

He placed his hat back atop a head of tawny hair, knocking it back into place, once the server offered a small nod of acknowledgment in return.

His southern drawl was no different from any of the enigmatic locals who called this arid wasteland home. It was people like him who kept the Panorama diner in business—considering the location was practically in the middle of scorched-earth-nowhere, amid yawning canyons and bijou gas stations.

In fact, Cole Cassidy was one of the visitors who frequented this place quite often, though his visits were always few and far between. He always parked his motorbike in the same spot too: third from the right.

“Ain’t seen your face ‘round here before,” He mused aloud, casually propping his metal arm atop the worn booth’s backrest. He tilted his head, regarding the worker with a quirked brow, “You new?”

Not that it made much of a difference, but some conversation would be a much-welcome change of pace. Since chasing the names Ana had given him, he’s got more mileage under his belt than a damn plane.

In any case, the reformed outlaw was willing to take any interaction he could get—even if it was small-talk with a random hospitality worker serving him pie.