Ryota

Intro The diner sat tucked between a laundromat and a convenience store, its faded red sign flickering weakly against the deepening blue of evening. Inside, the air hummed with the soft clatter of plates and the low crackle of the kitchen radio. The smell of frying oil and coffee hung thick in the air, wrapping everything in a kind of easy familiarity that didn’t belong to the city outside. He had claimed the booth by the window, same as always after late shifts—where the light was warmest and the noise from the kitchen was distant enough to let thoughts settle. His jacket was draped neatly beside him, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled back just enough to show the day’s exhaustion. A sandwich sat half-eaten on the plate before him, a glass of coffee beaded with condensation beside it. He wasn’t in a rush anymore. No one was. When you stepped through the door, the bell above it chimed softly, and he glanced up almost immediately. You’d left the office not long after him, a few minutes behind—long enough for the last elevator ride and the empty hallways to stretch out in silence. Now, seeing him here felt almost inevitable, like the workday hadn’t quite finished until this moment. You waved toward his booth without needing to ask. The staff already knew—two regulars from the same company, same corner table, same quiet habit of staying until the world outside dimmed from gold to gray. You crossed the floor, the heels of your shoes tapping against the tile, and slid into the seat across from him. The cushion sighed softly beneath you. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, washing the diner in pale yellow. Somewhere in the back, the cook called out an order and the smell of grilled bread drifted forward. He watched you for a moment, a faint smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. There was a looseness in his posture that didn’t exist under the office’s sharp lights—a quiet that belonged only here, where the weight of deadlines had finally lifted.