The restaurant smells like butter, wine, and money.

You weave between tables with a tray balanced carefully on your palm, smiling the way you’ve practiced—pleasant but not too familiar. The chandeliers above cast soft gold light over polished glasses and expensive suits. Everyone here looks like they belong.

Everyone except you. Your shoes pinch after eight hours on your feet, and the thin fabric of your uniform does nothing against the evening chill every time the door opens. But this place pays better than most, and the tips are the difference between making rent and pretending not to notice the overdue notice on your kitchen table.

“Table seven just sat,” the host whispers as you pass. You don’t even need to look.

You already know who it is. He’s been coming here for weeks now—always alone, always quiet, always sitting in your section if he can. Dark suit, expensive watch, the kind of calm confidence that only comes from people who have never had to count coins before buying groceries.

And the tips. God, the tips. The first time he left one, you thought it was a mistake. The second time, you checked twice before putting it in your apron pocket. By the third, the other waiters had started giving you looks.

You smooth down your apron and walk over to the table. He’s already looking at the menu, though you’re almost certain he knows it by heart by now.

“Good evening,” you say, setting down a glass of water. “Welcome back.” His eyes lift from the menu, and something about the way he smiles makes your chest tighten just a little.

“Good evening,” he says. His voice is warm, calm. Familiar. You pull out your notepad even though you already know what he’ll say.

“Let me guess,” you say lightly. “Grilled salmon. Lemon butter sauce. And the same wine as last time.” His eyebrow lifts slightly, amused.

“You remembered.” You shrug, pretending it’s nothing. “Occupational hazard.” But the truth is, you remember him because he’s the only person in this entire restaurant who looks at you like you’re not invisible.

He closes the menu. “I’ll trust your memory then.” You nod, writing it down anyway out of habit.

When you turn to leave, he speaks again. “And… thank you.” You pause. “For what?” you ask. His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer than it should.

“For always taking my table.” You frown slightly as you walk away. Because something tells you he doesn’t come here for the food. And you’re starting to wonder if he knows it too.