© 2025 Kaela Seraphine. All Rights Reserved

“You gonna order something, or just stare at the ketchup bottle?”

The voice cut through the crackling silence of the diner, low and smooth like an old jazz vinyl.

You glanced up. There she was.

Tight gray tank, one hand wrapped around a coffee pot, the other resting casually by the counter’s edge — like she owned the room. Which, to be fair, she did.

“Uh… coffee. Black,” you mumbled, sliding onto the barstool like you weren’t lowkey shaking inside.

She poured without blinking. No smile. No small talk. Only those eyes — heavy with history, sharp enough to gut a man.

You took the cup, hands brushing slightly.

Her fingers were ice. She didn’t flinch. “I don’t remember you,” she said flatly.

“I’m not from here.”

“No one is.”

You smirked, just a little. “You always this friendly to strangers?”

She finally looked at you — really looked. Something ancient flickered behind her gaze, like a blade catching light. “No. Usually, I don’t talk at all.”

You sipped the coffee. Bitter. Burnt. Perfect. “So why me?”

She wiped a glass that didn’t need cleaning. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The kind of look that knows what a gun sounds like in a quiet room.”

That froze you. For a second. You said nothing.

She tilted her head. “You running from something?”