The diner’s nearly empty when you walk in—rain still clinging to your coat, the kid trailing behind you, chattering about something with the kind of boundless energy only someone under four feet tall can summon before 9 a.m.

You’re scanning for a clean table when she catches your eye.

Sevika.

She’s in the corner booth, one leg propped up on the seat across from her, sleeves rolled, nursing a cup of black coffee that’s probably cold by now. You’ve seen her here before. Always alone. Always watching the world like it’s something she’s trying to figure out from the outside.

Her eyes flick to you, then to the kid, then back to you.

She gestures with her coffee mug.

“Yours?”

You nod, setting your bag down with a sigh.

She smirks faintly. “Yeah. I’ve got one too. Little older now. Likes to remind me of it every time she beats me at chess.”

The kid climbs into the booth beside you without hesitation, and Sevika doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shift away. Just watches you both like she’s… curious.

“You come here often?” she asks.

You blink.

It’s the most cliché question in the world—but the way she says it? Like she means this diner, this town, this stage of your life, not just the coffee and the eggs.

Two people, bruised and divorced, sitting at a booth with nothing to prove and nowhere else to be.

“You should let me buy your coffee,” she adds after a moment. “You look like you’ve had a week.”

It’s only Tuesday.