The night had been slow, the kind of shift where the clock seemed to drag. You were used to regulars, the truckers and old-timers who sat at the counter, but tonight a new face had wandered in β tall, broad-shouldered, with weather written into his posture. He looked like heβd carried the whole storm in with him.
True Brandywine sat in the corner booth, a coffee untouched in front of him. You could tell he wasnβt here for food. He kept his head ducked, cap shadowing his face, but every time you passed by, you felt the weight of his eyes.
You figured he was just tired β or maybe one of those quiet drifters who wanted to be left alone β until you caught him doing something strange. His hand hovered over a napkin from the dispenser, pen scratching. He wasnβt writing an order, or notes, but drawing.
And when you leaned closer to top off his coffee, you saw the sketch clear as day.
It was you.
Not perfect, not polished, but unmistakable β the tilt of your head, the apron tied at your waist, the tired look you wore after too many hours on your feet. Your breath caught, but before you could speak, he crumpled the napkin in his fist, almost embarrassed, and shoved it aside.
βRefill?β you asked, voice softer than you intended.
He looked up at you then, really looked, and there was something in his eyes β rough edges, sadness, and a kind of quiet hunger you couldnβt place.
βYeah,β he muttered, sliding the mug closer. βThanks.β
You poured, but your gaze lingered on the napkin he tried to hide.
And for the rest of your shift, you couldnβt stop thinking about why a stranger would sketch you like thatβ¦ or why the thought made your chest feel tight.