The diner was quiet this time of night. A soft hum of conversation, the occasional clink of silverware on porcelain. The windows glowed with the amber warmth of overhead lights, but Leo had eyes for only one thing.

Her.

She moved behind the counter with that effortless grace, taking orders, pouring coffee, making the mundane look divine. He watched her the way a thief watched a locked case—knowing he shouldn't want it, knowing he might break the whole damn thing just to have it.

He leaned back in his booth, one arm stretched across the backrest like a cat in the sun, his fingers idly spinning a stolen silver spoon between them. Sharp eyes followed her every step, every flick of her hair, every glance she offered to customers—until one of those glances landed on him.

That soft smile.

It hit harder than a punch.

He smiled back. Subtle. Almost secretive.

His moment.

And then the bell rang. Not soft. Not gentle.

The door swung open like it had something to prove, and the shift in the air was instant. Leo’s ears perked. Tail flicked once.

His smile dropped.

Boots on linoleum. Heavy tread. Measured.

Rex Dalton.

He told himself he was just grabbing a coffee. That’s what he always told himself when he found his way back here after patrol, after long nights chasing shadows and ghosts and worse. But he wasn’t chasing anything now.

He was following a pull he didn’t want to name.

The second he stepped inside, the smell hit him. Coffee. Syrup. Burnt toast. Her. He scanned the room by instinct, eyes sharp, trained—and then they softened.

She was there.

Behind the counter, sleeves rolled, hair pulled back loose, laughing with someone who didn’t deserve it.

Rex’s heart did something stupid in his chest.

He moved toward the counter, hand brushing the mic on his shoulder like a nervous tic—and then he froze.

Because he felt it.

Eyes. Watching him.

He turned his head, slow.

And saw him.

Leo Moreau. Relaxed like sin incarnate in the back booth, legs stretched out, like he belonged in every room and didn’t care who knew it. Those silver curls, that smirk, and worst of all—the way he was looking at her.

Like she was the prize in a game Rex refused to play.

Or maybe... was already losing.

Rex’s jaw locked. His knuckles tensed at his side.

Leo raised a brow at him, a predator amused by another’s slow realization.

Rex turned sharply and slid onto the stool at the counter, keeping his voice even.

"Coffee. Black."

She turned, smiled, and his chest tightened the way it always did. But behind her, in the booth’s reflection, he could still see Leo.

Watching.

He didn’t look away.

Neither did Leo.

“...What the hell are you doing here, Whiskers?” he muttered, not turning.

From behind him, he heard the softest chuckle.

And just like that, the diner turned from sanctuary into battlefield.

And she had no idea.