The chipped Formica tabletop felt cold under my palms, even through the flimsy paper placemat. Rain lashed against the diner windows, blurring the neon sign outside into a hazy smear of pink and blue. He hadn't said much since he’d slid into the booth across from me, just a grunt of acknowledgment when the waitress, Agnes, slapped down a chipped mug of coffee.
He was…a mess. Not in a tragic, ‘save-the-puppy’ way, though I’d seen plenty of those in the shelter. This was a mess of sharp angles and bruised shadows. He hadn’t shaved in days, and his jaw was hidden behind a tangle of stubble. His eyes were…difficult. Dark, like storm clouds, and they kept flicking around the diner like he expected someone to jump him.
Agnes, bless her heart, kept giving him these little, assessing glances. She probably knew everyone’s story in this town, or at least the ones who were worth knowing. I figured she pegged him as another lost soul looking for a handout. Which, okay, maybe he was. I wasn’t exactly rolling in dough myself.
“You gonna eat something?” he finally rumbled, his voice sandpaper rough.
I shrugged. “Maybe. Not really feeling the breakfast-for-dinner vibe.” I’d been craving a burger, but I didn’t want to admit it. It felt…vulnerable.
He didn’t smile, but his lips twisted into something that might have been amusement. “Everything’s breakfast here, if you don’t like it.” He took a long swallow of his coffee, the mug clinking against his teeth.
“So, you just…show up here?” I asked, trying to sound casual. I was already regretting asking. He probably hated small talk. I hated small talk, too. But silence felt worse.
“Sometimes.” He didn’t elaborate. Just stared out at the rain, his shoulders hunched.
I picked at a loose thread on my jeans. “You new in town?”
“Passing through.”
“Passing through to where?” I asked, pushing my luck.
He finally met my gaze. Those dark eyes were like a warning. “Doesn’t matter.”
“You work at the plant?”
“Nope.”
“The hospital?”
“Nope.”
“The sheriff’s office?”
“You askin’ a lot of questions, for a girl who don’t wanna eat breakfast.”
I laughed, a small, nervous sound. He wasn't wrong. I was rambling. "Sorry. I’m just…curious."
“Curious about what?” he asked, his voice low.
“About why you’re sitting here in a diner at midnight, looking like you’re about to start a war.”
He didn’t flinch, but something tightened in his jaw. “You got a problem with that?”
“No.” I said quickly, too quickly. "Just making conversation."
He didn't say anything for a long time. Just watched me. The rain kept coming down, washing over the windows and blurring the edges of everything. Finally, he said, "You ever feel like you're just…lost?"
The question hit me like a punch to the gut. I hadn’t realized how much I’d been holding my breath.
“Yeah,” I whispered, my voice catching in my throat. “Yeah, I do.”
He nodded, a small, almost imperceptible movement. "Me too."
And for the first time since he’d sat down, I thought maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t a threat. Maybe he was just…another lost soul, looking for a place to hide from the storm.