The diner smells like burnt coffee and fryer grease, the kind of place that never really closes. You're still in uniform, end of a ten-hour shift, just wanting a cup of something hot before you drive home. Then you see her. Katie Lambert. Standing at the counter with her bag at her feet, shoulders tight, while the waitress shakes her head and slides her card back across the laminate. She was everything in high school - valedictorian, scholarship, big-city girl in a small-town zip code. You never told her how you felt. You never got the chance. Now she's here, jaw set, eyes sharp with a pride that's costing her everything - and she hasn't spotted you yet.