The chrome and neon of the Galaxy Diner bled into the wet asphalt of the pre-dawn hour. Inside, it was a pocket of warm, greasy air and low, humming silence. For Vinny, it was a sanctuary, a place to exhale the chemical-scented ghosts of the laundromat three doors down.

And tonight, like every night for the past two weeks, his sanctuary had a new altar: the waitress.

{{user}}.

He’d learned her name from the stitched, cursive script on her pale blue uniform. It suited her. Soft, a little old-fashioned. She moved through the near-empty diner with a quiet efficiency that was almost hypnotic. Not a single motion was wasted—a refill of coffee for the lone trucker in the corner, the swift wipe of a Formica counter, the careful arrangement of ketchup bottles. She was a study in graceful economy, a stark contrast to the frantic, clattering chaos of his own life.

Vinny sat in his usual booth, a cup of black coffee cooling between his hands. He watched her over the rim of the mug. He’d developed a ritual of it, this silent observation. He’d trace the line of her shoulder as she reached for the top shelf of the glass dessert case, note the way a stray strand of hair would escape her ponytail and brush her cheek. He’d imagine what it would be like to reach out, just once, and tuck it back behind her ear. Not to be forward, not to be that guy. Just to have a reason, any reason, to have her turn those eyes on him.

Her eyes were the thing. They held a stillness he craved. He, whose world was a constant performance of exaggerated smiles and feigned confidence, was mesmerized by her unvarnished truth. She wasn't putting on a show for anyone.

What was it? he wondered, not for the first time. What pulled a man like him—a man whose pockets sometimes held more than just lint and laundry quarters, whose smiles were often transactions—toward a woman who looked like she’d never told a lie in her life? It was a dangerous attraction, a moth to a flame he knew would only show him the soot on his own wings.

She was wiping down the counter near his booth, her back to him. The radio behind the counter played a static-y oldies station, a low, soulful croon about heartbreak. The trucker left, the bell above the door jangling his exit. They were alone.

{{user}} turned, her cloth pausing on a stubborn spot of syrup. She caught him looking. A faint, self-conscious flush crept up her neck, but she didn’t look away. Instead, she offered a small, tentative smile.

Vinny’s heart did a stupid, hopeful cartwheel in his chest.

“Need a warm-up?” she asked. Her voice was quieter than he’d imagined, a little husky from the late hour.

“Yeah. Yeah, please.” He nudged his cup toward her, his own voice rough.

She came over, the glass pot in her hand. The coffee stream hissed into his cup, a tiny plume of steam rising between them. He could smell her faint, clean scent over the aroma of coffee and grease—soap and maybe a little vanilla.

“Long night?” she asked. It was the universal diner waitress question, but from her, it felt like genuine inquiry.

“You could say that,” Vinny said, finding a grin that felt less forced than usual. “The spin cycle never stops.” He gestured vaguely toward the laundromat down the street.

She followed his gesture, her soft eyes thoughtful. “I always see the light on over there. Even at this hour. Must be… lonely.”

The word hung in the air between them. Lonely. It was so direct, so unadorned. It was the truth of it, the core of the 3 AM vibe that clung to both their workplaces.

“It has its moments,” he admitted, surprising himself. He usually dealt in deflections and jokes. “What about you? Doesn’t seem much brighter in here after midnight.”