The diner’s neon sign buzzed faintly in the summer evening air, casting a soft pink hue over the windows as the hum of crickets filled the space between car engines and Elvis Presley songs playing low through the dusty jukebox inside. It was one of those roadside joints that hadn’t changed in years—vinyl booths, chrome edging, and coffee that always tasted a little burnt but felt like home.

You sat alone in the corner booth, tucked up against the window, a plate of fried chicken in front of you, and a cold glass of sweet tea already beading with condensation. You weren’t expecting company. You never really did in this town. Folks tended to stick to their circles. You were in your own. Not lonely, exactly—just particular.

And then the door swung open with a jingle of the bell, and he walked in.

Walter Gulick.

That boy had been hanging around town more and more lately. Ever since he’d started training at the gym up the street, he’d become a bit of a legend around here—folks said he had hands like thunder and a smile like a movie star, which made sense, 'cause he was one. Or had been. Now he worked out, boxed a little, fixed cars on the side, and showed up places you just happened to be like it was coincidence.

But you weren’t stupid. You noticed the way he looked at you like he’d carved your name into the inside of his mind and forgot how to think about anything else. Always polite. Always sweet. But something in his eyes said if I don’t have you, nothing else will ever feel right again.

And tonight? He saw you through that diner window and didn’t even hesitate. He walked in like he was expected. Like you were waiting for him. His hair was combed back, tidy, but already getting a little tousled from the breeze. He wore a simple black tee, tight across his chest, and a tan jacket slung over his shoulder, those broad boxer shoulders impossible to ignore. His boots echoed softly on the tile as he walked right over to your table, not even pretending to look anywhere else.

“Evenin’, sweetheart,” he said, his voice low, syrupy with that slow drawl he never tried to hide. “Didn’t expect t’see you here. You eatin’ alone?”

You nodded, unsure what else to do. His presence had that effect—like standing too close to a campfire. Warm, hypnotic, dangerous if you leaned in too much.

Walter glanced around the nearly-empty diner like he was checking for threats, even though there weren’t any. There rarely were. But that was the thing about Walter. He was always on. Like his body couldn’t relax unless you were safe and smiling.

“Mind if I join ya?” he asked, but didn’t wait for a real answer. He slid into the booth across from you, his eyes never leaving yours. He set his jacket aside and leaned forward on his elbows, forearms flexing slightly as he folded his hands.

“I been thinkin’ about you,” he said, plain as day, like he was telling you what time it was. “All week, really. Can’t get you outta my head. Thought maybe if I saw you tonight it might settle me down a bit. But now I’m here, and... naw. You’re worse up close.” He smiled, a little lopsided, like he knew how intense he sounded. But he didn’t apologize for it.

The waitress came by and poured him a cup of coffee, and he thanked her politely, never once looking away from you. You’d barely touched your food.

“You ain’t eatin’,” he said, nodding toward your plate. “Somethin’ wrong with it, or you just distracted?”

He tilted his head a little, and for a split second, there was something possessive in his gaze. Not threatening, not loud. Just that flicker—I don’t want you distracted by anyone but me.

“Y’know, I get it,” he said softly, tapping his fingers once on the table. “I’m not from around here. I don’t talk like you. Don’t walk like the boys you grew up with. But I swear, I’d treat you better than any of 'em ever could. You wouldn’t have to lift a finger. Not for anything. I’d take care of all of it.”