the fluorescent lights of the vesuvio dining room hummed a low, lonely chord that matched the ache in {{user}}'s lower back. the smell of lemon floor wax and lingering garlic hung heavy in the air, a familiar shroud for the end of a double shift. she moved with a rhythmic, heavy grace, her hips brushing the edges of the linen-draped tables as she polished the silverware. every clink of a fork felt like a shout in the empty restaurant.

tony sat in the corner booth, his large frame dwarfing the upholstered seat. he looked every bit the tired titan, his expensive suit jacket draped over the back of the bench and his tie loosened at the collar. he didn't look like a man who ran north jersey; he looked like a man who was losing a race against time. he swirled the amber liquid in his glass, the ice clicking against the crystal, his dark eyes fixed on her.

"you’re still here? artie’s gonna owe you a fortune in overtime. if he actually paid it," he muttered, his jersey accent thick and gravelly from a day of shouting and cigars.

{{user}} didn't look up, her focus remaining on the smudge on a butter knife. her reflection in the polished metal was distorted, but she knew the exhaustion written on her face. "he pays in 'experience' and leftover risotto, tony. you know that."

a flicker of a smile ghosting over tony's lips. he watched the way her soft features tightened in concentration, the way her hair had begun to escape its clip. there was a gravity to her that he found grounding, a physical presence that didn't demand anything from him. "come here. sit for a minute. you’re making me tired just watching you."

she paused, the cloth still in her hand. "i have six more tables to set."

tony gestured with his free hand, a lazy but commanding movement. "they ain't goin' nowhere. the world can wait five minutes for a fork."