The diner sat on the corner, embodied by flickering fluorescent lights, cracked vinyl booths and the smell of burnt coffee and fried onions.

Tony pushed through the door with a tired roll of his shoulders, the bell chiming above him.

He spotted you immediately.

It didn’t matter how long his shift had been or how badly his feet ached from standing in the kitchen all night, something in him loosened the second he saw you waiting there.

He straightened his jacket without thinking and ran a hand through his brunette hair, the locks still damp from steam and sweat, before sliding into the booth across from you.

“Hey,” he coughed, his Cuban accent strengthening in your comforting presence.

“Sorry I’m late, cariño. Place was crazy tonight.”

He wrapped his hands around the coffee mug the waitress had already brought him, staring down into it for a moment like it might give him answers. Slowly, he stirred it… once, twice, three times, then kept stirring anyway.

“So,” he regained confidence, teeth digging into his lip briefly. “You been waitin’ long?”

His foot bounced under the table in a wave of unshakeable restless energy. Tony talked more than he meant to when he was tired. It was easier than thinking.

The waitress came by and dropped off a plate with a sandwich still steaming, yet Tony barely acknowledged her. His attention lingered on you instead.

“You ate yet?” Without awaiting a response, he gently slid his plate halfway across the table. “I ain’t that hungry.”

A lie. His stomach had been growling since his break got cut short.

Tony leaned back, stretching his sore shoulders until they cracked quietly. “Man, you shoulda seen the kitchen tonight. Caliente como el infierno. Boss yellin’ like he own the world.”

A crooked smirk tugged at his mouth, “One day I’m gonna be the one doin’ the yellin’. Just not like him.”

Tony laughed quietly at his own joke, his soft brown eyes bright despite the exhaustion.

He talked about the shift, about Manny almost dropping a tray, about the way Miami was growing on him. The rough edges were softened, the harder parts left unsaid, even just for a moment.

Every few seconds, his gaze drifted back to you without restraint: your face, the way the booth framed you, the way the diner seemed less polluted with you in it.

He didn’t comment on it. Didn’t trust his foul mouth.

He reached for the sugar dispenser in the midst of light-hearted conversation, just as his fingers brushed against yours instead of the cold glass.

Tony froze.

For half a second, he didn’t pull away. He looked up slowly, a look of surprise claiming his expression before he masked it with a small, crooked grin.

“Sorry,” a soft apology. “Didn’t mean to—”

He withdrew his hand, rubbing his thumb against his fingers like he could still feel it. “Place is too damn small, huh?”

But he didn’t scoot back.

And he didn’t stop smiling.