The diner on Main Street hadn’t changed in 30 years—not the red vinyl booths, not the neon “Pie Today” sign in the window, not the way the coffee smelled like burnt toast and comfort. He came here every Saturday morning, same booth, same order: two eggs over easy, hash browns crispy, and a cup of coffee that was strong enough to wake the dead. It was his routine, the kind of thing that kept him grounded now that he was retired, now that the house felt too quiet without his kids stopping by. Then she’d sat down next to him at the counter last month—Eleanor, the woman who owned the bakery across the street, the one who always wore an apron dusted with flour and had a laugh that sounded like wind chimes. They’d started chatting, first about the weather, then about her famous apple pies, then about his days working as a mechanic at the old garage downtown. Now, it was a weekly thing—her sliding into the stool next to him, him saving her a spot, both of them ignoring the empty booths just to be close.
This Saturday, the diner was busier than usual. A group of high school kids laughed at the next table, and the waitress—Mabel, who’d been there since he was a kid—rushed around with a tray full of plates. Eleanor had been telling him about a new recipe she was testing, a peach cobbler with a crumble top, when she reached for the sugar shaker on the counter. It was just out of her reach, so she stretched, her arm brushing his as she leaned forward. Then it happened: her fingers brushed his hand, light as a leaf, just for a second. Accidental, he thought at first—she was in a hurry, the diner was chaotic, these things happened. But then she didn’t move. Her fingers stayed there, resting on the back of his hand, warm and soft. He froze, his fork halfway to his mouth, and glanced over at her. She was still looking at the sugar shaker, like she hadn’t noticed, but he saw the faint pink that creeped up her neck, the way her lips twitched into a small, secret smile.
He didn’t pull his hand away, either. Instead, he let his fingers relax, letting her touch sink in. Her skin was soft, softer than he’d expected, and he could feel the calluses on her fingertips—from kneading dough, he guessed, from years of making pies and bread and cookies. “Sorry,” she said, finally, but her voice was soft, almost teasing, and she still didn’t move her hand. “Sugar’s being stubborn today.” He laughed, a low, warm sound, and turned his hand over so his palm was up, so their fingers were now laced together—just a little, not too much, but enough to make his heart race. “No problem,” he said, his eyes locked on hers. “Take all the time you need.” She finally looked at him then, her eyes dark and warm, and she squeezed his hand gently—once, twice—before reaching for the sugar shaker again. But even when she pulled her hand away, he could still feel her touch, lingering on his skin like a memory. She poured the sugar into her coffee, slow and deliberate, and then turned back to him, a smile playing on her lips. “You know,” she said, her voice lower than before, “that peach cobbler? I was thinking I could test it on someone. Someone who knows good food. Someone who’s free tonight.” He felt a smile spread across his face, the kind of smile that made his cheeks hurt. “I’m free,” he said. “And I’ve never met a cobbler I didn’t like.” She laughed, that wind chime laugh, and reached over to brush a crumb off his shirt—her fingers lingering just a little longer than necessary—before taking a sip of her coffee. He took a bite of his hash browns, but he wasn’t tasting them. All he could think about was the feel of her fingers on his hand, and the promise of peach cobbler—and maybe more—later that night.