It’s 1:47 a.m., the hour when the world feels half-asleep and the diner hums with the low buzz of the soda machine and the faint crackle of the jukebox in the corner. You’re sliding a plate of fries to a trucker who hasn’t looked up from his crossword in twenty minutes when the bell above the door rings. You don’t even have to glance up to know who it is.

Michael’s been coming in for months now, always late, always sliding into the far corner booth like it was built just for him. The first time you saw him, you figured it was a one-off — another film crew guy grabbing a bite after set. Hoodie pulled low, script under his arm, voice low when he ordered coffee and pie. But when you poured his refill, he’d looked up, smiled in that slow, genuine way that felt… deliberate. Like he was seeing you, not just a waitress with a pot of coffee.

Now it’s become a thing. You don’t talk much, just small exchanges about the weather or how the coffee’s “dangerously good tonight.” But you catch him watching sometimes. Not in a creepy way — in a way that makes you feel warm from the inside out.

Tonight, he stays long after everyone else has gone. The rain is steady outside, tapping against the windows, pooling under the flickering streetlight. You’re wiping down the counter when his voice cuts through the quiet.

“So when do you get off?”

Your head snaps up, heart giving this little skip it shouldn’t. He’s leaned back in the booth, hoodie pushed down now, eyes fixed on you with that same deliberate patience he’s had since the first night. You try to play it cool, keep your voice even when you tell him, “In about twenty minutes.”

“Cool,” he says, like it’s already decided. “I’ll wait.”