The door to Rosie’s Diner swung open with a soft jingle, letting in a rush of cold morning air and the sharp scent of city pavement still damp from last night’s rain. Jason Todd stepped inside, brushing a few stray droplets off his tailored navy coat, his polished shoes clicking quietly against the tile floor. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of one of those business magazines stacked by the register—pressed shirt, perfect tie, and that air of easy confidence that came from knowing how to own a room. But despite the late-model car parked outside and the expensive watch gleaming under the diner’s flickering fluorescent lights, he didn’t look like he belonged here. Not really.

And yet, he came every morning.

The regulars didn’t question it anymore. Rosie herself had stopped trying to tease him about being “too pretty for diner coffee.” Jason Todd always came in around eight-thirty, just late enough to miss the office rush, and always sat in the same corner booth by the window—the one that gave him a view of the street and, more importantly, a perfect view of you.

You, the waitress who never fawned over him. Never asked about the firm he worked for or the kind of car he drove. You treated him the same way you treated the trucker who came in after a long haul or the college kid who lived off black coffee and fries. You smiled at him, sure, but it wasn’t the kind of smile people usually gave Jason Todd. It wasn’t the kind that said I know who you are or I want something from you. It was just… kind. Real.

And for someone who spent his life surrounded by people who measured worth in numbers, that was enough to make him come back.

He spotted you behind the counter, your hair pulled up, uniform apron tied neatly at your waist, pencil tucked behind your ear. You were laughing at something Rosie said, head tilted just slightly, that soft sound cutting through the dull hum of morning chatter. Jason paused a moment, just watching—his heart doing that stupid skip thing again that he’d pretend was just the caffeine. Then he took a deep breath, slid into his booth, and waited.

You noticed him a few seconds later, grabbing the coffee pot automatically as you made your way over.

“Morning, Jason,” you said with a small smile, your tone easy, familiar. “The usual?”

Jason leaned back in his seat, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know me too well.”

“Hard not to,” you replied, filling his mug with practiced precision. “You’ve been ordering the same thing for months. Most people would’ve tried the pancakes by now.”

He chuckled softly, resting his forearm on the table. “Maybe I just like consistency. Or maybe I just come for the company.”

You shot him a look—amused, but unimpressed—and set the pot down. “You say that like it’s supposed to earn you a free refill.”

Jason’s grin widened. “Would it?”

“Not a chance.”

He laughed, the sound low and genuine. There was something about you—something grounding. Out there, he lived in a world where people spoke in stock tickers and smiled with their teeth but never their eyes. Here, you smelled like vanilla and coffee grounds, your shoes squeaked when you walked, and your laugh wasn’t something he could buy.

He watched you move across the diner as you took another table’s order, his chest tightening in a way he couldn’t quite explain. He’d tried—God, he’d tried—to charm you like he did everyone else. He’d left big tips, cracked jokes, even offered to take you somewhere nice, somewhere that didn’t smell like burnt bacon grease and cheap detergent. But you’d just smiled and told him you were fine right where you were.

And that, somehow, made him want you even more.