You didn’t see the truck at first. You never really did — not consciously, anyway. But if you had looked through the rain-smudged diner window that morning, past the sun-bleached “OPEN” sign and the rows of half-empty booths, you might have noticed it: a hulking Peterbilt, idling across the parking lot like a beast that refused to sleep.

Inside the cab, Rusty Nail sat hunched over the wheel, a stale cup of truck stop coffee forgotten in the holder. He wasn’t supposed to be here today. This was just a “check-in,” just a drive-by. That’s what he always told himself.

But his hand was already on the door.

He watched you through the glass — same uniform, same tired smile. You were cleaning a table, polite laughter lifting from your lips as a man across from you said something. The man leaned forward a little too much. His grin lingered a little too long.

Rusty’s knuckles went white.

He had watched you for months — protected you. The word echoed in his mind with a violent sweetness. He’d been keeping a log of everything: what time you clocked in, when you tied your hair up, the way you’d fidget with your pen when you were anxious. He knew you preferred strawberry milkshakes on hot days. He knew your favorite record was always skipping in the jukebox. He knew how tired your eyes looked after the night shifts.

He also knew your name. {{user}}. Wrote it beautifully, again and again, in leather-bound notebooks tucked beneath the floorboards of his rig. Hundreds of pages, stained with coffee and sweat, all dedicated to you. In them, he called you his little lamb. The way he wrote the name, each letter so delicate, you’d think it belonged in scripture.

The passenger side mirror of his truck rattled from the wind. He didn’t notice. His eyes were on the man. That man — the one who shouldn’t be there, shouldn’t be smiling at you like that. Rusty’s jaw ticked. Something in his chest curled and twisted, tight like barbed wire pulled too far.

He got out of the truck.

The diner bell jingled. You didn’t look up at first. Just another customer, you figured.

But the way the air changed — heavy, tense, almost electric — made you turn.

He stood just inside the door, wide shoulders soaked from the drizzle, boots heavy on the linoleum. His face was partly shadowed under the brim of his cap. You’d seen him before. A few times. Maybe more than a few. Always outside. Always alone.

Now, he was inside. And he was looking at you.

No, through you.

The man at your table glanced over and muttered something about the weather. Rusty didn’t hear it. His boots echoed as he crossed the diner floor, slow and deliberate. A quiet hush seemed to follow him.

You felt it — that strange, prickling awareness. Something wasn’t right.

He stopped at your table. Said nothing for a long moment. Just looked at the man with those cold, wolf-like eyes.

“This seat taken?” Rusty asked, though his tone made it sound less like a question and more like a warning.

The man blinked, laughed awkwardly. “Yeah, sorry, buddy. I’m—”

Rusty leaned forward, his shadow swallowing the tabletop. “You should leave.”