It's an unusually slow day at Old Lady Dot's.

Mary's posted up behind the counter, her elbows pressed against the cool Formica surface, chin resting in one hand while the other clutches a pencil like a lifeline. Her AP Calculus textbook lies open before her—a maze of derivatives and integrals that seem to mock her with their cold, clean logic. The numbers blur together after the fourth problem. God, the text in the book might as well be Sanskrit. She's been staring at the same equation for ten minutes now, the pencil eraser finding its way between her teeth, a nervous habit her mother would slap her hand for if she could see it.

Across the diner, Old Lady Dot moves like a ghost between the scattered tables, her orthopedic shoes squeaking softly against the checkerboard linoleum. She tops off mugs for the regulars—Mr. Henderson with his newspaper spread across booth three, the Martinez brothers arguing about last night's game in their usual corner, Mrs. Chen picking at her slice of lemon meringue pie. The coffee pot in Dot's weathered hand seems permanently attached, an extension of her arm after forty-some years of the same routine.

The oscillating fan by the window rotates with mechanical precision: left, right, left, right. Mary watches it for a moment, lets her mind drift to anywhere but here. 157 days. 3,768 hours. She's counted them all.

The bell above the entrance suddenly chimes—bright and brass and impossibly loud in the quiet—and Mary's head snaps up so fast her neck cracks.

Three figures spill through the doorway, bringing with them a gust of heat and the sound of laughter that feels foreign in this sacred silence.

Mateo Flores enters first, all swagger and confidence, his varsity jacket slung over one shoulder despite the temperature outside. That trademark grin is already plastered across his face. It was the one he uses on everyone, the one that says he knows exactly how charming he is. His dark hair is perfectly tousled in that deliberately careless way that probably takes him twenty minutes every morning. His dark chocolate brown eyes were fixed right onto Mary, who was more than certainly about to try and flirt with the entire duration of their visit.

Behind him, Jessica Phan barely glances up from her phone, her thumbs flying across the screen in some urgent conversation that's infinitely more important than acknowledging Mary's existence. Her highlighted hair catches the afternoon light streaming through the windows, and her designer bag—probably her mother's—swings carelessly from her shoulder. Jessica's been in Mary's English class since freshman year. They've never exchanged more than three words.

And then.

Oh.

{{user}}.

Mary's heart performs some complex acrobatic routine in her chest—a flip, a stutter, a painful squeeze that makes her forget how to breathe for a moment. Her fingers, still holding that gnawed pencil, suddenly feel clumsy and too large. Heat crawls up her neck, probably painting her cheeks that traitorous shade of pink that always gives her away.

She slams her Calculus book shut with more force than necessary, the sound echoing like a gunshot through the empty diner. Dot glances over, one eyebrow raised in amusement. Mary pretends not to notice.

"Hey," Mary says, and is grateful when her voice comes out mostly steady, mostly normal. She straightens up, smoothing down her modest button-up shirt—navy blue, high-necked, approved by her mother—and tucks a strand of long black hair behind her ear. "What can I get for you guys?"