Chapter 1: The stranger

I can’t prove that he’s watching me.

But I can feel it.

 

The sensation crawls along the back of my neck like a whisper I can’t quite hear, like a pair of eyes lingering just a second too long.

 

The dark stranger in the corner of the diner has become a strangely permanent figure in my life. At first, he was just another late-night customer—one of the quiet ones who slips in unnoticed and disappears just as easily.

 

But he never disappears.

 

Every shift I work, he’s there.

 

Same corner booth. Same posture. Same dark hood shadowing his face. A thick book rests in his hands, its pages always open, always turned with slow patience. The dim yellow light above the booth catches the edge of the paper but never quite reaches his face.

 

He blends into the darkness of the diner like he belongs there.

 

Like he’s part of the furniture.

 

In the past few weeks, he has spoken exactly three words to me.

 

“Irish coffee, please.”

 

That’s it.

 

I don’t even know why I ask him what he wants anymore.

 

Every shift, it’s the same order. Three Irish coffees over the course of the night. If it’s a particularly busy night and I take longer getting back to his table, he ends up ordering a fourth. One at the end of the night, when the calmth has returned and it's like he needs the finish.

 

He never complains.

He never looks up.

He just waits.

 

And still, I’ve never seen his face.

 

“Coming right up,” I say automatically.

 

The words feel pointless the moment they leave my mouth.

 

I’ve tried to make conversation before, at the beginning, when he first started showing up. It’s part of the job. Smile. Chat. Make the customers feel welcome.

 

“Busy night for reading?”

Nothing.

 

“That book any good?”

Nothing.

 

Not once has he answered.

Not once has he lifted his head.

 

Eventually, I stopped trying.

 

If he wants to sit in a dim corner reading books while drinking what is probably the worst Irish coffee in the city, that’s his decision.

 

Fine by me.

 

Especially considering the tip.

 

My gaze drifts briefly to the empty coaster on his table where his drink will sit in a few minutes. Beneath it—like always—will be folded bills. Too many of them.

 

Massive tips.

 

Night after night.

 

He doesn’t have to tip at all. This isn’t the kind of place where anyone expects it. But for the past few weeks, that stranger’s quiet generosity has been padding my pockets in a way I definitely can’t complain about.

 

Honestly, if all my customers were like him—silent and overly generous—life would be perfect.

 

I turn away from the booth and glide back toward the bar, the wheels of my black rollerblades humming softly against the checkered floor. The diner is quiet tonight, the low buzz of conversation mixing with the clatter of dishes and the soft hiss of the espresso machine.

 

As I reach the bar, I spin once out of habit, a small twirl that helps me slow down, and slide the order ticket across the counter.

 

My partner in crime catches it without even looking.

 

My boss.

 

She snorts softly as she reads it.

 

“Let me guess,” she says, already reaching for the whiskey bottle. “Your mysterious admirer again?”

 

“He’s not an admirer,” I mutter.

 

She pours the cheap whiskey into a fancy glass mug, the smell the strong alcohol rising in a cloud.

 

“Mhm,” she hums skeptically.

 

The dark liquid swirls together as she tops it off with whipped cream. For a moment she studies it like it’s a piece of art, then sighs dramatically.

 

“I can’t believe summer is ending,” she says with a pout.

 

I lean back against the counter, letting my weight rest on the bar as I scan the diner floor. Outside the windows, the evening light has already started fading into that hazy blue that comes right before night settles in.

 

“Tell me about it,” I sigh.

 

Fewer tourists. Colder nights. And soon enough, the quiet lull before winter really sets in.

 

As I glance across the diner again, a strange prickling sensation runs along my skin.

 

That feeling again. Like someone is staring at me. I turn my head slightly toward the corner booth.

 

The stranger hasn’t moved.

 

His head is angled down toward his book, one hand holding the page open while the other rests loosely against the table. The hood still hides his face completely, the shadows thick enough that I can’t make out anything beneath it.

 

He hasn’t looked up.

Not once.

Still…

The uneasy feeling lingers.

 

“It’s been a good summer,” I murmur dreamily. The words come out softer than I expect, like I’m afraid the universe might overhear and decide to ruin it.

 

Because it really has been good.

 

The diner has been packed most nights with tourists passing through town, truck drivers stopping for coffee, couples lingering over late desserts. I’ve been working my ass off, rolling from table to table until my legs ache.

 

But it’s been worth it. For the first time in my life, I’ve actually managed to save money. Enough for my first car.

 

And not even a rusted, wheezing disaster like most students end up with. No—thanks to generous tips and long shifts, I managed to buy something decent. Something reliable.

 

Something that means I can finally leave this tiny town whenever I want. Freedom. Safety.

 

And, if I’m being completely honest, a good chunk of that money came from one particular customer.

 

The beautiful stranger in the corner.

 

“Are you excited for tomorrow?” Evee asks as she sets the Irish coffee behind me. The warm scent of whiskey and coffee drifts through the air.

 

I turn toward the cake stand and grab two pieces of handmade fudge. Over the past few weeks I’ve started to notice patterns in the stranger’s behavior. Small things. Almost invisible things.

 

But they’re there.

 

For example: he always eats the fudge.

 

Not the cheesecake. Not the brownies. Just the fudge.

 

So now I make sure he gets it. Two pieces every time. And I’ve started experimenting with flavors. Today’s selection: spicy chai and strawberry vanilla.

 

“I am,” I reply, nodding as I arrange them carefully on the small wooden serving board. “I’m looking forward to seeing everyone again.”

 

I pause, glancing out the window where the evening light has already begun to fade. “But I’ll miss the sun,” I add. “I’m not a winter girlie.”

 

Evee snorts loudly behind the bar. “That’s the understatement of the century,” she says. “I remember when your lips turned blue last winter.” She laughs. “It wasn’t even freezing.”

 

The new academic year starts tomorrow. One more year of university, and it's finally over.

 

“I belong on a beach somewhere,” I sing dramatically as I place the cane sugar cube beside the glass mug. When I glance down, I notice Evee has drawn a tiny heart in the milk foam.

 

I slowly lift my gaze toward her.

 

She meets my stare with a shameless grin.

 

“What?” she says innocently, shrugging her shoulders. “He’s here almost every night.” Her eyes flick toward the corner booth. “He’s not here for the whiskey. If he wanted that, he’d be at the pub next door.” She leans against the counter. “Maybe he’s just shy.” Her grin widens. “Maybe he’s secretly in love with you.”

 

I raise one eyebrow.

 

Evee bursts out laughing. “It’s getting cold,” she says, shooing me away with a flick of her hand. “Go.” Then she smacks my hand with a damp tea towel.

 

I snort. “Yes, boss.”

 

Carefully, I lift the wooden board with the drink and fudge. As I turn, my wheels glide easily across the checkered diner floor.

 

Evee bought this place right before summer. She had two weeks to renovate the place before opening it. She asked me for help and I've never left. I'm one of the very few staff members, but I love it here.

 

The diner has become something like a family. Evee behind the bar. Marcel shouting from the kitchen. The servers. The delivery truck drivers who stop to chat when they bring supplies. The friendly faces who keep returning.

 

In some strange, twisted way… Even the beautiful stranger has become part of it.

 

And every single one of them is almost as annoying as my real family. The only family I have left.

 

My sister.

 

Who—right on cue—bursts through the diner doors like she owns the place.

 

She tosses her jacket onto a chair and marches straight toward the bar. I pretend not to see her.

 

If I acknowledge her now, I’ll never escape the conversation.

 

Instead, I roll smoothly toward the dark corner of the diner.

 

The stranger is exactly where he always is.

 

Tall. Still. Wrapped in shadows.

 

Tonight’s book is another murder mystery, its thick spine resting against the table. His hood hides his face as usual, the dim overhead lamp casting him in a pool of darkness that somehow never seems to touch the rest of the diner.

 

My rollerblades carry me to his table far too quickly. That’s one advantage of these ridiculous things. I’m very fast.

 

Unfortunately… Working while hungover? Not recommended. Try wheeling your way through sickness.

 

As I slow near the booth, the now familiar sensation creeps up my spine.

 

Electricity.

 

That’s the only way to describe it. Standing near him feels like brushing against a live wire. Every tiny hair on my arms rises. My heartbeat speeds up. My stomach flips violently, like it can’t decide whether it’s thrilled or terrified.

 

He puts me completely on edge.

Every single time.

 

It’s like walking into a magnetic field I can’t escape.

 

Maybe it’s because I don’t know anything about him. Maybe it’s the mystery.

 

Or maybe it’s simply the quiet intensity he seems to radiate.

 

For all I know, he could be a serial killer.

 

I quickly push it away. Not exactly comforting when I’m about to hand him a hot drink.

 

“They’re fresh today,” I say softly as I place the Irish coffee in front of him.

 

I point toward the darker fudge cube. “That one’s spicy chai.”

 

My finger shifts toward the second piece. “And that’s strawberry vanilla.”

 

My nails are painted a soft pink tonight. The small tattoo on my finger stands out clearly against my pale skin. It's a tiny mark my sister and I got years ago.

 

A stupid, impulsive memory.

 

I keep my tone professional. Friendly. Normal.

 

As always, I look for a reaction. Any reaction.

As always, I don't get one.

 

Nothing.

 

His head stays lowered over the book. His body is perfectly still. Too still.

 

For a moment I get the strange impression that he’s tense.

 

Like he’s holding himself back somehow. Like my presence has shifted the air around him.

 

Maybe he feels the strange electricity too.

 

Or maybe he just hates people standing this close.

 

“Raven!”

 

My sister’s voice slices through the diner like a foghorn.

 

I wince. Slowly, I glance over my shoulder. She’s already claimed a bar stool beside Evee, grinning like a menace. I turn back to the table.

 

“I’ll be back in an hour,” I say politely, my best server smile sliding into place.

 

Still nothing. No response. No glance. No acknowledgment.

 

I slowly roll backwards from the table. Then I turn.

 

But just before I look away—

 

I swear I feel it.

 

That heavy sensation again.

 

Like eyes sliding up my back.

 

Watching.

 

Following.