the nights were slow, the diner half-empty, humming with the low croon of music from the jukebox in the back. at this hour, it was mostly drifters—greasers passing through, tired men with nowhere else to go.

the bell over the diner’s door jingled, and even though you didn’t look up, you already knew.

Evelynn Cade. The waitress who came back in with a groan after dealing with an annoying customer.

She made her way to her usual corner seat where she sits for her break, dropping a crumpled $2 bill onto the counter like it was part of some unspoken ritual. You see another waitress pass her some cigarettes. She started to glance at you.

still sat at the counter.

still watched you.

but it wasn’t really about the cigarettes. it was about this. whatever this was.

not together. not really. but not nothing, either.

Evelynn lifted her gaze, eyes flickering over the empty diner—faded vinyl booths, napkin dispensers filled halfway, countertops wiped down to a dull shine—before they landed on you again.

She shook her head, amused, eyes following your every move, fumbling with a salt shaker, a straw, always needing to do something with your hands. that almost got a smile out of her. almost.

"shouldn’t a person like you be in bed?" her voice was low, rough like gravel but teasing at the edges.