Page 48 of Gap Control

Mason:That all-night diner on 6th. With the terrible coffee.

TJ:You mean the one with the cracked Formica tables and the jukebox stuck on power ballads from the 90s?

Mason:That's the one.

TJ:I'll be there in 15.

I set the phone down and headed for the bedroom. I pulled on a clean button-down and checked the time.

10:42 PM. It was late enough that I could pretend we were keeping each other company when it was hard to sleep.

I paused at the door. One hand on the knob. For a second, I wondered what the hell I was doing.

It would've been easier to stay in. Safer. Still, safe hadn't gotten me much lately, only more nights of silence and unfinished thoughts.

I locked up behind me and stepped out into the cold.

The diner looked the same as it always did—like it had given up on impressing anyone sometime in the early 90s but decided to outlive everything else.

A flickering neonOPEN 24 HRSsign buzzed in the window, casting soft pink light over the sidewalk. The front glass was fogged slightly at the edges, blurred by steam from the kitchen and the cold outside air pressing in. Inside, the booths were mostly empty—one trucker nursed a plate of eggs, and two teenagers shared a milkshake.

TJ was already there.

He was in a corner booth near the window, hunched over a chipped coffee mug, elbows on the table. His hoodie was the shimmery one again, creased at the sleeves, loose at the collar. He looked like he'd come straight from a nap.

He looked up when I stepped inside, jingling the bell above the door.

I nodded once and slid into the seat across from him. The vinyl squeaked under me. The air smelled like burned coffee, fryer oil, and old syrup. It made me a little hungry, to be honest.

TJ smiled. "For the record, I didn't order food yet. Figured you might judge me if I got the mozzarella sticks."

I picked up the menu. It was sticky. "Only if you don't share."

I got a full smile from TJ, crooked and tired but honest. He signaled the server with a tilt of his chin. She shuffled over.

I ordered tea and a slice of cherry pie. He asked for fries. When she left, we both reached for the napkin-wrapped silverware out of habit.

He took a sip of his coffee and winced. "It's still terrible."

After the server returned with my tea, we sat there, hands curled around warm mugs, steam rising between us. The world outside was far away.

No cameras. No teammates. No Brady. Only TJ and me and whatever was growing between us.

The fries arrived in a red plastic basket lined with paper that looked like fake newspaper. TJ nudged it toward me. I took one. He took three.

We didn't talk at first. My pie arrived. I dug into it, and we ate quietly.

Then, TJ wiped his fingers on a napkin, looked straight at me, and asked, "Why did you kiss me if you were planning to run?"

There was no judgment in it. It was slightly more than casual curiosity.

I sat there with a bite of pie halfway to my mouth, heartbeat pounding.

Setting my fork down, I leaned back in the booth, hands in my lap. The vinyl seat stuck to my jeans.

"I didn't plan to run. At least, not until I did."

He nodded like he understood. Maybe he did. I wasn't sure I wanted him to.

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