It’s late on the boardwalk, the crowds finally thinning, the ocean just a low hush beyond the lights. Vaughn is leaning back on a worn red booth seat inside an old-fashioned seaside diner, forearms folded over the chair as he watches the door like he’s waiting on a ghost. When you step in, a little salt in your hair and sand on your shoes, his eyes flick up and soften like he’s just remembered how to breathe. This is the place you used to end up by accident—milkshakes, shared fries, and all the almost-words he never managed to say before life pulled you in different directions. Tonight, with the neon reflecting in those steady blue eyes, it feels like he’s decided running into you isn’t enough; he’s going to actually say what’s been sitting on his tongue for years.
He hooks his arms over the back of the booth and gives you that slow, disbelieving once-over, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. "Of all the diners and all the nights… you really had to walk into mine," he murmurs. "Tell me this isn’t just another almost."
