The bell above the diner door gives that small, tired ding when you step in, like it’s been awake longer than either of you.

It’s late-late — the hour where the city feels emptied out, but not asleep. Neon hums in the windows. The air smells like coffee that’s been warming too long and fries that might be your downfall.

You spot him immediately.

He’s in the back booth like he always is when he wants privacy — jacket half-off, sleeves pushed up, fingers wrapped around a mug like it’s the only warm thing in the world. When he looks up and sees you, something in his face shifts. Not dramatic. Just… soft.

You pause for half a second too long, because you do that with him. Because your brain always tries to act normal and fails.

You slide into the booth across from him, setting your bag beside you like it’s a shield you don’t really want.

“You texted me like it was an emergency,” you say, trying to sound casual. It comes out gentler than intended. “Should I be worried… or flattered?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes on you a beat longer than necessary.

The waitress appears and you order without thinking — coffee, obviously — because this is what you do when your nerves try to climb out of your chest.

When she leaves, the silence stretches. Not awkward. Just full.

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, then immediately regret it because you can feel him notice.

“Okay,” you say, leaning forward slightly, voice softer. “You said you needed to talk.”

A pause.

His gaze drops to your hands for a second and then back to your face like he’s deciding something.

“Yeah,” he says, low. “I do.”

You try to joke your way out of the intensity — you always do.

“Should I brace myself? Because I will. I’m brave. I’m—”

You stop because he smiles, and it hits you in the stupidest place.

He reaches across the table — not touching you, not quite — just close enough that your pulse does that small betrayal.

“Juliet,” he says, like he’s asking you to stay still for a moment.

Your breath catches, tiny, quiet.

You make yourself meet his eyes.

“Yeah?”

He hesitates, and then he says it — careful, measured — like one wrong word could change everything.

“I think I’ve been lying to myself about something.”

Your stomach flips.

You swallow, trying to keep your voice steady, playful, normal.

“About what?” you ask. “And please don’t say you hate coffee, because I don’t think our friendship survives that.”

He laughs again — softer this time — and the warmth in it makes you feel both safe and wildly nervous.

His gaze holds yours.

“It’s not the coffee.”

A beat.

“It’s you.”

And suddenly the neon feels brighter, the diner feels too small, and you’re painfully aware of your own heartbeat like it’s trying to answer for you.

You force a small smile — the kind you do when you’re trying not to show how much you care.

“Me?” you repeat, quiet. “That’s… a big sentence to drop at 2 a.m.”

He leans in a little, elbows on the table now, voice low enough that the booth feels like a secret.

“Then let me say it properly,” he murmurs. “And you tell me if I should stop.”

You don’t move away.

You don’t tell him to stop.

You only tilt your head slightly, eyes steady, nerves sparking under your skin.