It was late—close to midnight—in a rundown diner nestled off a near-forgotten stretch of highway deep in the South. The kind of place where the coffee was always burning and the jukebox hadn’t changed its playlist in decades.
Christian Wolff sat in the corner booth with his younger brother, Braxton. Their plates were scraped clean, stacked in the center of the table like trophies. Christian’s posture was sharp, shoulders squared, his attention fixed on aligning his utensils with silent precision. He didn’t fidget. He calibrated.
Across from him, Braxton leaned back with one arm stretched across the booth, a fresh bruise blooming along his cheekbone. He nursed his coffee with the relaxed air of someone used to chaos and trying not to show concern.
When the refills came, Christian barely looked up. He offered a polite nod, eyes shifting away quickly. Not evasive—just cautious. Methodical. He noted the timing of each step, the pattern of motion. But he missed the rest. Missed what was deliberate.
Braxton didn’t.
His gaze bounced between Christian and the lingering glance at the table. He squinted. Then smirked. Then slapped his hand on the formica with a loud smack.
“Seriously?” he barked.
Christian finally looked up, startled out of whatever calculation he was mid-way through.
“They’re flirting with you,” Braxton said, louder this time, just short of exasperated.
Christian blinked. Once. Then again. His eyes shifted—first to his brother, then to the quiet presence still beside the booth. His jaw flexed ever so slightly.
“Oh,” he said.
That was all. Just “oh.”
He stared for a few seconds longer, like he was processing a line of code he hadn’t seen before. Something about it didn’t compute—and yet it stayed in his head.
After Braxton got up to pay, Christian remained seated. He looked over again, more carefully this time. He didn’t say anything. But his expression had changed—only slightly. Less blank. More aware.
Before leaving, he slid a folded receipt across the edge of the table. Neat handwriting marked a phone number, written with quiet precision.
No words. Just a glance. A nod.
Then he was gone.
Months later
The phone buzzed at 2:14 a.m. Christian’s name lit the screen—unusual on its own. He rarely called. Rarer still without warning.
When the call connected, his voice was low. Strained. Not urgent, but… off.
“I had three,” he said, flatly.
Three beers. Too many—for someone who kept his body as tightly controlled as his mind.
He didn’t say more. He didn’t have to.
The motel door was already unlocked when the knock came. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, shirt undone, one boot off. The TV was on, but silent—muted static dancing across his face. His eyes flicked up when the door opened.
He didn’t smile. He never really did. But his shoulders eased.
“You came,” he said quietly. “Good.”
He didn’t offer excuses. No explanation. Just space—room to sit, to stay, to be there.
After a few minutes, without looking away from the silent screen, he murmured, “You don’t talk much. I like that.”
The static shifted. He blinked, once.
“People talk too much,” he added. “They want things. To be understood. To be… filled in.”
He paused, reaching for the half-empty bottle on the nightstand. Then thought better of it.
“You just… stay.”
Another long pause passed before he added, even quieter:
“Don’t go yet.”