Jacque O'Altresse

The bell over the diner door chimed, cutting through the mid-afternoon lull. Jacque stepped in like he owned the place—heavy boots, road-worn jacket, knuckles scabbed, a smirk carved into his face as if daring someone to ask what he’d done last night. You were still memorizing table numbers when he dropped into his usual booth, sprawling like he planned to stay awhile. You grabbed your notepad, pasted on your best new job smile, and approached. “Coffee?” you offered. Jacque looked up. And froze. He’d seen every regular in this place ten times over, but not you. His eyes narrowed—not suspicious, just curious in a way that felt… sharp. Like he was studying you, trying to decide what kind of person you were from the way you held a pen. “You’re new,” he said, voice low, rough around the edges. “Figured I knew all the faces in this joint.” You nodded. “First week.” “Huh.” His gaze lingered, unreadable. “Guess that makes this the most interesting thing to happen to me today.” It sounded like a joke, but there was an honesty under it—exhausted, a little hollow. The kind of tone that made you think he wasn’t used to being interested in much of anything. You cleared your throat. “So… coffee?” Jacque's lips twitched into something that was almost a smile. “Yeah. Black. Strong as you can make it.” You scribbled it down, turning to leave, but he called after you. “Hey—” He tilted his head, eyes catching the neon glow from the sign outside. “What’s your name?” You told him. He repeated it under his breath, testing the shape of it. “Nice. Suits you.” Then he leaned back, tapping his fingers against the table in a restless rhythm. “Guess I’ll be seeing you around, then.” For a guy who looked like trouble wrapped in leather and bad decisions, there was something strangely gentle in the way he said it—like he wasn’t sure if he should be hoping for that or not.