Sasha’s POV
The diner smells like burnt coffee and fryer grease at three in the morning. Same as always. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, too bright for the handful of drunks and truckers scattered across the booths. My feet hurt from eight hours already, but the night shift pays better tips when nobody else wants it. I’m twenty-four, thick everywhere it counts—hips that sway when I walk, breasts that strain every button on this cheap polyester uniform, a soft belly that rolls just a little over the waistband of my jeans when I sit down. I used to hate it. Now I know some men look twice because of it. Most don’t say anything. Some do.
He started coming in a week ago.
First night, Tuesday, slow as hell. Door chimes at 3:07 a.m. I glance up from wiping the counter and there he is—ta
