“Rowan!” She beams when she sees him walking up. “I’m surprised to see you in the daylight.”

“Could say the same for you,” he says. “I thought you worked nights.”

She laughs. “Oh no. Just Saturday nights. I’m here during the day the rest of the week.”

Well, that makes much more sense than her being a disgruntled spirit or whatever tall tale Rowan was concocting. Though he does wonder if it has anything to do with that being the night that Mal comes here after he goes to the club.

“What brings you here?” she asks.

“Just in the area.” It’s not a complete lie, after all. “Thought I should finally try your coffee.”

She places a fresh white mug in front of him and fills it to the brim, then places a miniature pitcher of milk down next to it. He normally takes it black, but today he decides to treat himself by adding two sugars and a generous splash of milk.

“Anything else I can get ya? I’m out of apple pie, but I have some lemon squares that are killer. Go right to your thighs, though you look like you can spare the bulk.”

“Sure, that sounds great. And can I get a veggie egg-white omelet, please? Wheat toast?”

“You got it, hon.”

As Sheila leaves to put in his order, Rowan sits at the counter and takes in his surroundings. It’s definitely weird being here in the light of day rather than nearly midnight, when the only sources of light are neon signs and fluorescent lights. The natural sunlight from the large wall of windows streams in, illuminating the bright red stools and benches, the subtle sparkle of the material making them shine. The retro-looking photo frames gleam and reveal old fifties-style posters that Rowan’s never really taken the time to notice before, his attention usually solely on Mal.

It really is amazing how comfortable he’s gotten here, the sights and sounds and smells making him feel at home. What’s sad is how much he misses having Mal here with him. How empty it feels when he’s not here, despite there being many more patrons than every other time they’ve come here.

But the breakfast rush thins out while Rowan waits for his food, and he finds himself once again in a nearly empty diner, much closer to what he’s used to. And when Sheila brings him his lemon square, he finally finds the opportunity to ask her something he’s been wondering about the past few months.

“So I’ve been meaning to ask, but how did you know Hank?”

She scoffs and leans against the counter, one hip cocked to the side. “Bah, that old drunk wandered in here one night high as a kite, lookin’ for handouts.”

Rowan snorts. “Sounds about right.”

“He took one look at my name tag and got all sentimental about some ex-girlfriend of his. Then asked if I was gonna shove anything inside him. I didn’t bother asking, and he didn’t bother explaining.”