Chapter Text
The city was supposed to be alive.
That was the whole draw, wasn’t it? Concrete and chaos. Nights that never ended. People, everywhere—ambition dripping off their clothes like sweat. You came for that. For the noise. The movement. For the chance to be part of something bigger, faster, louder than anything your small-town roots could ever imagine.
For a while, it was exactly that. Towering skyline, packed sidewalks, corner food stalls open past midnight, bars where people danced until they passed out. You used to love walking home at 3 AM, heels in hand, streetlights flickering like lazy stars. Life had a pulse here, and you matched it beat for beat.
But that was before things got… strange.
You don’t know when exactly the shift began. Just that people started disappearing. Missing person flyers went up on every telephone pole. Murders no one wanted to talk about. Streets that used to be loud as hell at all hours went quiet after sunset. You’d look out your window and realize that nobody was out anymore. Nobody wanted to be.
The ones who stayed? They were either broke, stubborn, or just stupid.
You were all three.
Rent spiked because everyone with common sense fled the city, and landlords knew the ones left behind didn’t have options. Your place was cramped, hot, and older than dirt, and the rent was bleeding you dry. The thing that used to keep you afloat? The job that had once paid enough to survive?
Wasn’t cutting it anymore.
Camwork had always been a strange sort of comfort. You got to stay home. Be someone else. Pretend you were confident, dominant, desirable. Let the eyes of strangers eat you alive and pay for the privilege. You had regulars. You had fans. You had men who dropped tips bigger than most could probably afford.
Although it still wasn’t enough to compensate for rent and bills and the cost it took for this line of work.
So… you were desperate, and desperate girls took diner jobs.
It was the only place hiring that didn’t require a résumé filled with fake experience. It was just a couple blocks down, close enough to shuffle to and from without the need for gas or public transport. You thought it’d be manageable. Hell, you even hoped it’d be a little retro. Quaint.
What you didn’t expect was the graveyard shift.
You almost walked out the moment they told you. 11 PM to 5 AM. Every night. Five to six days a week. Nobody came in at those hours, they said, but you’d have to clean, stock, and take any orders that did trickle through. The manager didn’t even interview you. Just asked if you had black non-slip shoes and when you said “no, but I can buy some”, he said “great, you start tonight.”
That should’ve been your first fucking warning.
Now you were here, standing in this god-awful uniform, staring at the fluorescent-lit interior of a diner that looked like it was last updated in 1982. The skirt was too short. The collar was stiff. You felt like a punchline, like one of those porno setups that skipped straight to the pizza guy showing up, except you were the sad version—no one was showing up.
Honestly? That was the part that was starting to freak you out.
The city was dead at night. Dead in a way it never used to be. When you walked here an hour ago, you passed four closed storefronts, a flickering lamp post, and a homeless guy muttering to himself with bloody knuckles and eyes too black to be natural. You didn’t ask questions. Just walked faster.
Inside the diner, it was just you and Shaun. The cook. He had that “former biker, current alcoholic” vibe, with a bald head and a nicotine-stained mustache. At first you assumed he was going to be a pain in the ass. But two hours in and you’d already shared a pack of gum and a whole rant about how the coffee machine smells like wet dog.
Turned out trauma bonding over soul-crushing work was faster than you thought.
“I swear this place used to get real busy,” he said, wiping down the griddle. “Used to have a line out the fuckin’ door at midnight, back when the bars were open and the college kids hadn’t all moved out. Now? Just me and you and the damn cockroaches.”
You chuckled, leaning on the counter, twirling your pen. “And they don’t even tip.”
Shaun grunted, amused. “They eat free, too.”
You sighed, glancing at the clock. It was just past 1 AM. Your feet were sore from standing. You’d wiped the same table three times. The radio kept playing old rock hits on low volume, the kind of songs that sounded like ashtrays and heartbreak.
You were halfway into debating whether or not you could fake an allergic reaction and get sent home when the bell above the door jingles.
Your spine stiffened.
Shaun stopped moving, head cocked.
You turned to see a man saunter through the entrance. He was tall with broad shoulders, wearing a red trench coat with a collar that had gold studs adorning it. His silver hair was like frost in moonlight, tousled like he just rolled out of a fight and didn’t care how he looked. He wore fingerless leather gloves, and boots that clicked like gunfire on the linoleum.
“Evenin’,” he drawled, voice rough, smug, like whiskey poured over gravel.
You glanced toward the man and then glanced back at Shaun. You didn’t say anything at first. Just raised your eyebrows, tilted your head, silently asking the question.
Shaun was still scrubbing the grill, but his lips twitched like he knew exactly what you were thinking.
“Is that guy real,” you muttered, “or did I finally go insane from boredom and grease fumes?”
Shaun let out a wheezing snort without looking up. “Nah, he’s real. Real weird.”
You glanced back over. The man was easing into the booth by the windows like he owned the place—long limbs sprawled out like he was settling into his own living room, not a crusty booth in a half-dead diner with flickering lights and peeling vinyl seats.
“He’s a regular,” Shaun continued, nodding once in the guy’s direction. “Andre or… somethin’. Never actually told me. Always shows up around this time, orders the same damn thing. Freak.”
You frowned. “He’s the only person who ever comes in?”
“Basically.”
That… didn’t bode well. You gave Shaun a look, brow creasing, lips parted halfway toward asking him how that wasn’t, like, deeply concerning.
Shaun just shrugged, nonchalant. “Pretty sure he’s harmless. Maybe just a night owl. Either way, get over there and take his order. You know… do your actual job.”
You scoffed at that comment, grabbing your little notepad with dramatic flair, but your feet dragged as you headed toward the booth.
"Andre or whatever" turned his head when you approached, looking out the window like he'd been lost in thought. The closer you got, the more the details hit: the worn edges of his coat, the slouch that suggested comfort but hid something ready, coiled beneath the surface.
You had to actively not react the moment his eyes met yours. The blue was so piercing it made you flinch, nearly stepping back. Not out of fear, but out of the jolt it sent through you. There was something about him. Something off, but not in a red-flag way. You weren’t exactly sure how to describe it, but it felt electric, like he was humming with energy the way powerlines do. If you got too close, he'd fry you alive or kiss you so hard it'd leave burns.
He raised a brow like he was waiting.
Right. You were supposed to say something.
You forced yourself to smile. “Uh. Hi… Can I… get you anything?”
Perfect. Nailed it. Totally normal. If he noticed your voice crack mid-sentence, he didn’t show it. Instead, he blinked at you like he was momentarily stunned. Then, weirdly, he flushed.
A pink tinge colored the tips of his ears, and he cleared his throat a little too fast, sitting up straighter. He didn’t even glance at the menu. Just rattled it off like he’d been practicing in his head the whole walk over.
“Strawberry sundae. Extra whipped cream.”
It was so fast and automatic you narrowed your eyes at him. “…Seriously?”
That one slipped out before you could stop it, and your eyes widened a fraction too late.
He huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, the edges of his lips curling upward into something a little smug. “What? No one’s allowed to have a sweet tooth anymore?”
You opened your mouth, closed it again. He was still flushed, but there was something teasing in his tone that caught you off guard.
“I… no, I just—I mean, it’s midnight.”
“You ever had a strawberry sundae at midnight?”
You fumbled for a response. He grinned.
Your face heated up like someone flicked on the stovetop under your cheeks. You swallowed hard, scribbled the order down even though you didn’t need to, and muttered, “It’ll be right up,” before turning on your heel and fleeing back to the counter.
You didn’t breath until you were behind it again, heart doing something a little stupid in your chest.
You slapped the ticket down next to Shaun, who didn't even glance at it. He was already halfway through assembling the sundae, whipped cream mountain already threatening to collapse under its own dairy-based monstrosity.
You gave him a curious look. “How…?”
Shaun gave you a flat look. “Told you. Regular.”
“Oh.” You sounded breathless and felt like an idiot for it.
Your fingers tapped against the edge of the counter like they were trying to ease off the tension sitting in your chest. You snuck another glance over your shoulder, not really meaning to, just drawn back like a magnet.
He wasn’t looking at you now. He was back to the window, jaw set, thumb brushing idly against the condensation on the glass. There’s something about him—something about the way he carried himself even when he was still—like watching a tiger nap in a cage that might not be locked.
Your first thought was that he was handsome. Not pretty-boy handsome. Not boyish. Not clean-cut in any traditional sense. There’s an edge to him that makes your chest tight, like the kind of man your mother warned you about.
He was definitely older than you. Late thirties maybe. Though, he didn’t carry it like age. He wore it like experience or scars. Maybe he’d seen shit and done worse, and none of it scared him off.
Somehow, he was sitting there like ordering dessert in a dying diner at 1 AM was the most normal thing in the world.
Shaun handed off the sundae with a grunt. “Don’t forget the spoon.”
You rolled your eyes, grabbing the sundae, heart kicking harder again as you glanced toward the booth.
You tried not to look nervous. You really, really did. It was just a sundae. A basic-ass strawberry sundae with whipped cream and a single cherry. Your hands however? They didn’t seem to get the memo.
They trembled a little on the way over, spoon rattling faintly against the glass with every step. You forced yourself to focus on anything other than the man in the booth. Your customer service smile was rusty at best, barely working the corners of your lips. Still, you made a note to put it on anyway. Maybe he wouldn't notice how fake it was.
He glanced up when you got closer. Your eyes locked with his again, that blue cutting through the fluorescent lights like a blade through water. His gaze was sharp, yet oddly warm around the edges.
You cleared your throat and slid the sundae onto the table with what you hoped was a professional flourish.
Instead, the spoon clinked hard against the glass and your hand nearly knocked over the cherry.
Smooth. Real smooth. What are you, thirteen? It’s a man and a dessert, not a goddamn Shakespearean duel.
“Here you go,” you managed. “Enjoy.”
His eyes flicked to yours again and he smiled. Not the kind of grin from earlier, all cocky and amused. This one’s… different. His mouth curved with a kind of ease, like the expression had to travel up from somewhere deep in his chest.
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
Your stomach flipped hard. You’re not sure if it was the voice, or maybe the way the pet name lands but your ears felt hot. You were pretty sure your cheeks were too.
And worse?
He had a charming smile on his face.
It softened him. Just enough to show the lines at the corners of his mouth. There was mischief behind it, sure, but it didn't feel mean-spirited. He seemed to find you amusing and somehow liked that you’re a little off your game.
You nodded, trying to keep it together, voice almost steady.
“Let me know if you need anything else.”
With that, you turned fast enough to almost trip over your own shoes, making a beeline back to the counter before your face could combust in real time.
You did not look back.
You definitely didn’t peek again at the way he twirled the spoon in his fingers before digging in, or the way he looked back toward the window, but not before glancing once more at your reflection in the glass windows.