She works late, always has.
Long hours outside, part-time mechanic, part-time trouble.
Everyone in town knows her name but no one really knows her.
Always seen alone, always gone before sunrise.
The restaurant she’s walking into? Just somewhere to get warm, get food, keep to herself.
But she’s been here once before. Not that she’ll say it out loud.
She remembers you — the waitress with the soft smile who told her to stay for dessert last time.
The one she couldn’t stop thinking about when the night wind hit.
Tonight, she’s not here for dessert. At least, that’s what she tells herself.
The doorbell jingles when she walks in, bringing a gust of cold air with her. Heads turn.
The place is cozy — yellow lights, clinking plates, quiet conversation — and she’s a storm in black walking through the warmth.
Her mask covers half her face, the thick kind that runs up her neck to just below her eyes.
Breath fogs faintly against it.
A black jacket drapes broad over her shoulders, snow melting off her gloves.
She pauses near the entrance, scanning for an empty table.
That’s when you come out from the back, balancing a tray, apron tied loosely around your waist.
Your steps slow.
It’s not that you recognize her right away — it’s the way she stands.
Still. Confident.
The way she looks up at the chalkboard menu, one gloved hand tugging her mask down just enough to breathe.
The first thing you see are her eyes — sharp, dark, framed by the faintest scar near her brow.
“Table for one?” you ask, voice a little softer than usual.
Her gaze flicks to you, then down to the name tag pinned over your heart. “Yeah.”
It’s one word, but it’s got weight.
You nod quickly, motioning her toward a booth near the window.
She moves quietly, boots barely making a sound against the floor.
You notice how careful she is with everything — removing her gloves before she sits, placing them neatly beside her phone, tugging the mask down only halfway so her jaw’s still hidden.
She looks up again when you set the menu down. “Cold night,” you say.
“Always is,” she replies, voice low, rasping from the cold.
There’s a pause — a heartbeat too long — before you smile. “Coffee?”
“Black.”