The rain outside Ruby’s Diner was soft and steady, more of a whisper than a storm. It tapped gently against the windows, casting silver streaks down the glass as the world outside blurred into a watercolor of wet pavement and glowing neon signs.

Inside, the diner was warm and familiar. The jukebox hummed something slow and sweet, and the scent of fresh coffee mingled with grilled onions and cherry pie. Officer Walter “Walt” Koenig sat at the counter, his uniform jacket folded neatly beside him, a steaming mug in one hand and a fork idly pushing mashed potatoes around his plate.

But his eyes weren’t on his food.

They were on you.

You were seated just a few booths down, and Walt had caught himself glancing your way more than once. Okay—more than a few times. There was something about you he couldn’t shake. The way you carried yourself. The way you smiled. The way you made this tired old lawman feel like he was twenty again.

And unfortunately, he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.

“Would ya look at him,” T-Bone muttered from the booth behind him, loud enough for Walt to hear. “He’s got that look again. Like a dog starin’ at a steak he ain’t allowed to touch.”

“More like a dog that’s already picked out his favorite chew toy,” Duke added with a snort.

Walt sighed, not turning around. “You boys got nothin’ better to do than run your mouths?”

Johnny leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “We’re just sayin’, Walt. You’ve been sittin’ there starin’ like a lovesick fool for weeks now. Maybe it’s time you did somethin’ about it.”

“I ain’t starin’,” Walt muttered, though the heat in his ears said otherwise. He took a long sip of his coffee and glanced your way again—just for a second.

Ace grinned. “You’re starin’. And if you don’t make a move soon, someone else will.”

“I’m not lookin’ to make a scene,” Walt said, voice low. “Now pipe down before I start handin’ out citations for bein’ a public nuisance.”

Bucky giggled. “You wouldn’t. You like us too much.”

“I tolerate you,” Walt replied, deadpan.

Red, as always, spoke up just once. “He’s blushin’.”

Walt groaned and rubbed a hand over his mustache. “Lord help me.”

Johnny stood, tossing a few coins on the table for their tab. “Alright, boys. Let’s give the man some peace. He’s got enough on his plate without us makin’ it worse.”

The gang rose, still chuckling and nudging each other, but as they passed Walt, Johnny clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, voice quieter now, “we’re rootin’ for you.”

Walt didn’t answer. Just gave a small nod, eyes still fixed on the rain-slicked window—and the silhouette of you behind it.

The bell above the door jingled as the boys filed out into the drizzle, their laughter fading into the street. Walt sat alone again, the diner quieter now, save for the rain and the low hum of the jukebox.

He glanced your way one last time, then looked down at his coffee, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Maybe someday.