The bell above the door jingled—a sound you’d come to know well. Rain tapped lazily against the diner windows as the wind whistled through the crack in the front door someone still hadn’t fixed.

You didn’t have to look up to know it was him. He always came in around this time. Same plain white t shirt. Same denim blue jacket with the color pulled up.

“Back corner?” you asked, grabbing a mug and filling it before he even reached the counter.

He nodded, offering the faintest smile. “You know me too well.”

You set the coffee on the table before he sat down, catching the amused tilt of his lips as he pulled out a weather-beaten book—some old Hemingway novel this time.

He didn’t speak much. Always left a generous tip. Never brought anyone in with him. And you? You pretended not to recognize him every single time.

But today, as the sky outside darkened and the booth light cast a glow on his sharp jaw and five o’clock shadow, he looked up at you—longer than usual.

“How long,” he said slowly, voice low and edged with curiosity, “are we gonna pretend you don’t know who I am?”