Truth is, I don’t think it’s the pancakes I’m looking forward to.
I pull up to Ivy’s apartment but before I can even put the truck in park, she’s already skipping down the steps, hair catching the sunlight, smile easy and unguarded.
I step out and lean against the passenger side door, arms crossed loosely as I watch her make her way toward me. She’s got that kind of energy that makes the rest of the street feel dull in comparison.
“Hey, you,” I say when she’s close enough, my voice soft but certain—the way I always say it to her now.
Her eyes light up like she’s been waiting to hear it.
I reach into my back pocket and pull out the single flower I picked up on the way over. Nothing fancy—just a small, pale daisy—but it’s perfect for her. “For you,” I murmur, tucking it gently behind her ear.
A blush blooms across her cheeks, and she looks down for half a second before meeting my gaze again. “Thank you,” she says, almost shy.
I grin, pulling open the passenger door. “Anytime.”
She climbs in, still smiling, still a little pink in the face, and I make sure she’s settled before shutting the door and heading around to my side.
We pull up to the diner, the neon sign flickering above us. The parking lot is mostly empty with only a couple of trucks, an old Buick, and us.
She eyes the diner as I park, her head tilting. “This looks…sketchy. Are you sure it’s open?”
I grin. “Sketchy? This place is a local treasure.”
She glances at the nearly empty parking lot. “Then where is everybody?”
“They’re missing out,” I say, cutting the engine. “Don’t worry, the food’s worth it. I promise.”
Her lips twitch like she’s not entirely convinced. “This is how people end up in true crime podcasts.”
“Fair,” I say, offering my hand to help her down. “But at least you’ll go out on the best pancakes of your life.”
We walk inside, greeted by the smell of maple syrup and coffee that’s probably been burning for hours. It’s classic, with checkered floors, vinyl booths, and a chalkboard menu with the specials half-erased. I’ve been coming here for years; it’s my favorite place.
We slide into a booth by the window, the vinyl squeaking slightly beneath us. The waitress comes over, pad and pen at the ready. “What can I get ya?”
“I’ll take a black coffee,” I tell her. “And she’ll have a vanilla latte with oat milk.”
Ivy’s brows lift, clearly surprised.
Before she can say anything, the waitress interrupts with a deadpan tone. “Sir, we don’t have lattes. Just plain coffee.”
I freeze, caught mid-smile. “Oh. Uh…right.”
Ivy starts giggling, shaking her head. “I’ll just do coffee with cream and sugar.”
The waitress scribbles it down, not missing a beat. “Anything to eat?”
“Two stacks of blueberry pancakes,” I say confidently, “each with a side of bacon and scrambled eggs.”
Ivy’s eyes narrow, but she’s smiling. “You just ordered for me.”
I hand the menus back to the waitress, who disappearswith a wink. I turn back to Ivy, resting my arms on the table. “Is that a problem?”
She laughs softly. “No. I guess not.”
“I told you. Breakfast connoisseur.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “I’m starting to believe it.”
