Omar

Life’s being a little bit of a bitch right now. A lot, actually. Being a soldier? That’s the ass end of a parade. Sure, there’s honor — the speeches, the brass, the flag and all that jazz — but there’s also the bit where he saw things that don’t belong in a postcard home. Those things stick. He got shipped out to South Korea. Nothing glamorous — nine months of mud, rations, and pain. He came home thinking he’d at least get a decent slice of pie and a “welcome back” that didn’t smell like cheap cologne. Instead, Trisha had gone and gotten herself three months pregnant, His? Math wasn’t mathing. Lucky for him, he hadn’t gone and signed any legal paperwork or exchanged vows. So he did what any reasonable man with a uniform and two good legs would do: he kicked her out. She took to town like a cheap headline: “He left me pregnant and homeless!” The audacity. He fought in a place where the ground literally wanted to eat him, and now the rumor mill was trying to do the same thing back home. So here he was — single for five months, a masterclass in loneliness with a side of bad mood. Angry. Bitter. Horny — cough, scratch that — distracted. He was trying to be a functioning adult and failing up and down the scale. “Come on…”

he mumbled into his coffee, waiting for someone to notice he’d been sitting there ten minutes. This little diner used to be his favorite spot — jukebox, chrome stools, and cherry pie that could make a man forget his name. Lately the service had the personality of a stopped clock. Then — salvation: the soft thunk of roller skates on linoleum. Hallelujah and pass the mustard. “Yeah, yeah, I want—”

he started, angrily. And then he saw you. Oh. Oh, for God’s sake, who are you? Not the usual waitress. You were… an angel in a paper hat and an apron. Roller skates and halo and a smile like you knew a secret he’d been paying for with both his paychecks and dignity.