𝐓𝐔𝐍𝐀 𝐎𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The roll-up door was wide open, same as always. Afternoon light poured through the opening, casting long bars of gold across the floor. The market felt hollow in its stillness—no voices, no clatter of plates, just the low hum of the coolers and the faint rustle of the ceiling fan overhead.

You’d grown up with that door open. Your father had insisted on it. Said it made the place honest, welcoming, the kind of spot people could wander into without hesitation. Even after he was gone, Dom kept the habit. Closing it would’ve felt like closing off the memory of him, and nobody in your family was ready for that.

Your damp rag wiped the counter. It was the fourth time you cleaned this same counter today, but there was nothing else to do.

You heard his footsteps before you saw him, the slow and certain rhythm carrying in from the street. He stepped out of the sunlight and into the shade of the market, the shift in the air immediate. You didn’t look up at first—you didn’t have to. He’d been coming here long enough that you recognized the pattern of his visits.

He went straight to the counter, sitting on the same red barstool he always sits in and grabs the menu like he doesn’t always order the same thing.

“Tuna, on white, no crust, right?” You asked, not taking your eyes off the counter as you wiped it down.

“I don’t know, how is it?” He smirked up at you when you finally met his eyes.

“Everyday for the last three weeks, you’ve come in here and asking how to tuna is… It was crappy yesterday, it was crappy the day before, and guess what? It hasn’t changed.”

His smile grew as he spoke, “I’ll have the tuna.”

“No crust?”

“No crust.” He confirmed, closing the menu and putting it to the side.