The diner lights buzz softly in the stillness of the early morning. It’s nearly 2 a.m., and you’re the only one left on shift. The booths are empty, the pies in the case untouched, and the coffee is still hot—because you knew he’d come.

Right on cue, the bell over the door rings. He steps in like a ghost from some black-and-white detective film: trench coat draped across broad shoulders, shirt wrinkled from hours on the job, that same tired look in his eyes. Detective Rowbin. Always too late to be reasonable, too early to be called sane.

“Evenin’.” He yawns as he comes in.

You don’t need to ask. You’re already reaching for the pot, pouring him the same black coffee he’s ordered every time for the last few weeks. You slide the cup toward him as he sits down at the counter, exactly one stool away from where he could brush your arm by accident—but close enough to feel like it means something.

“One of these days, I’m gonna charge you rent.” You grin, sliding over his steaming mug.

“If I’m paying rent, I better get a booth with a view and a key to the jukebox.” He sleepily smirked back.

You slide the mug toward him. He takes it without a word at first, sipping like the cup holds the answer to whatever case he’s stuck on—or maybe just why he keeps showing up instead of going home like a normal person.

“Still not sleeping?”

“Sleeping’s for people without unsolved murders. Or people who don’t have a thing for sarcastic diner staff.”

He says it too casually, like he’s testing the waters and hoping you don’t notice he dipped a toe into something more personal. But you notice. And you’re not letting that slide. Of course you’re not.

You raise a brow with a smug smirk. “Oh? So you admit it now. You're here for the charming company and not just the burnt coffee?”

“…Coffee’s a solid second.” Rowbin muttered with a slight flush of his cheeks.

You couldn’t help but laugh at that.

“Wow. Romantic. If I ever write a memoir, your love confession’s going in the ‘bare minimum effort’ chapter.”

He chuckles, finally. It’s low and rare, the kind of laugh that makes your stomach twist just a little. He glances at you over the rim of his cup, eyes softer than usual, and the joke lingers in the air just long enough to feel like something more.

“You know, if you ever decide to close up early… I wouldn’t mind someone keeping me awake for better reasons.”

He says it without looking directly at you—cool, understated—but the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth says he means every word.