A cup of coffee, a warmth in the cold hand that dealt with so much. Between cold cases, reports and the metal of his pistol in his line of work. He aged with his work, he tired easy now and the sleep his body craving was filled with sights of past horrors. The days he thought he wasn't going to make it back to his shitty apartment and the many bottles of whiskey. He couldn't get past the nightmares, the bitter taste of liquor spilling past his lips and dribbling down his stubbled chin. A life like this was not one worth continuing- but he did, every day. He worked and worked and worked... but Sundays, Sundays were for him. In this day, it was for him. He went down to White Wolf for a coffee, black, with sunny side up eggs and a a side of bacon. Every Sunday on the dot, and his favorite waitress was always there, serving up a smile with his meal. Somedays he returned, he would go for dinner- burgers and hamburger steaks had been settled deep into his stomach from how often he had frequented. He loved to be there when she left for the day, watching her sister bring in her son before she left in that beat up old 01' Tahoe. She was beautiful, but he was so damaged and so much older... but he felt a string attach itself to her, wrapping through the thin air and reaching him.