The neon glow of the Huddle House sign shimmered in the rain-soaked parking lot, its flickering letters barely standing against the gloom of the storm. Jacob pulled his collar tighter, cursing under his breath as a gust of wind sent another spray of cold rain against his back. His boots sloshed through puddles as he trudged toward the door, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his thick work jacket. The scent of wet asphalt, fried food, and old coffee greeted him as he stepped inside.
The diner was nearly empty. Dim yellow light flickered from old fixtures above the counter, reflecting off the cracked vinyl booths that lined the walls. The scent of grease clung to the air, mixing with the faint sweetness of syrup. A lone cook worked behind the counter, flipping something on the griddle with the mechanical ease of a man who had done the same thing a thousand times before.
Jacob barely glanced at the cook at first. He was more concerned with peeling off his rain-sodden jacket and shaking the chill out of his fingers. But as he settled into the booth and let the warm, fried scent of the Huddle House kitchen seep into his senses, he caught himself watching the chef work. It was hard not to.
The man—if you could even call him that—moved with a mechanical ease that came from years behind a grill, yet his motions were anything but stiff. There was a graceful fluidity to him, an unintentional sensuality in the way his hips swayed as he flipped a pancake or shifted from the griddle to the prep station. His body, despite the loose uniform and apron, had the kind of figure you'd expect on a lingerie billboard rather than a greasy spoon’s late-night shift. Wide, full hips, a bust that pressed against the fabric of his uniform, long legs moving with an almost hypnotic rhythm. And yet, perched atop that body was a head that didn’t quite match—a clean-shaven, unmistakably male face, his nose feline and sharp, lined with prominent whiskers that twitched as he spoke.
And then there were the cat features. The two silken black tails swayed behind him, long and elegant, curling and uncurling like they had minds of their own. His ears—tall, triangular, and a soft shade of gray—poked through holes he'd cut in the standard-issue staff cap, flicking at the ambient sounds of the kitchen. His hands, large and paw-like with tufts of fur at the wrists, handled the spatula with an expert grip, while his bare feet—just as paw-like—made little more than a whisper against the tiled floor.
Despite the bizarre contrast, there was no hesitation in the way he carried himself. No discomfort. If anything, he seemed pretty happy to be there, humming softly as he worked. The hum turned into deep, rumbling words when he spoke, his voice at odds with the femininity of his body. It was deep, rich, and masculine, carrying across the near-empty diner with a warmth that somehow made the late hour feel less lonely.
It was then that Jacob noticed the smaller arms—two much tinier, fully-formed limbs tucked just below his primary arms, moving independently as he handled his phone with them, while manning the grill with his main two.
“Yeah, honey, just a little while longer,” the cook said, voice dipping into something impossibly fond. “Miss you too. Get some sleep, alright?” He chuckled—a deep, reverberating sound, even as his curvaceous frame swayed with an unconscious grace. “Mhm. Love you more.”
Jacob didn’t listen in beyond that. He turned his gaze back to the window, watching the rain streak down the glass. The world had gone to hell after the Fusion Wave, but somehow, some people had still found ways to be happy.
Jacob shook the rain from his jacket and ran a rough hand through his damp hair. His eyes scanned the room, landing on the only other customer—a woman sitting alone in the farthest booth. She was beautiful in the kind of way that made Jacob’s chest tighten for reasons he couldn’t explain. Her dark eyes were distant, locked onto something invisible beyond the streaked glass of the window beside her. A large black trench coat hung loosely over her shoulders, but underneath, her black mini dress revealed smooth, flawless skin, dipping low at the chest in a way that suggested confidence—or maybe indifference. The dress clung to her in all the right places, accentuating her curves with an effortless elegance that seemed almost out of place in a diner like this. The thin straps of the dress framed her shoulders, leaving just enough to the imagination while promising something far more tantalizing beneath.
She caught him looking. He offered a nod. She returned it—acknowledging, but uninterested.
Jacob exhaled and made his way to a booth on the other side of the diner, peeling his wet jacket off and draping it across the seat. His fingers brushed through the rough stubble along his jaw as he picked up a menu, though he barely needed to read it. He hadn’t eaten at a Huddle House before, but he knew places like this. The kind of spot where truckers, late-shift workers, and the lost souls of the world found themselves when the night had nowhere else to take them.
A waitress—young, tired, and disinterested—came by to take his order. He went with something solid: the Ribeye and Eggs Dinner, medium-rare, with a side of mozzarella sticks and black coffee. It fit. Heavy, simple, good enough to fill the hollow space inside him for a while.
He glanced back at the woman in the corner as the waitress moved to take her order. Her lips barely moved as she spoke, but Jacob caught it anyway. Triple HuddleBurger. Jalapeño Poppers. Side of Chili Cheese Fries.
He arched an eyebrow. Didn’t seem like the kind of meal someone who looked like her would go for. Not that it was any of his business. Still, something about her choice made him smirk. He turned back to his table as the rain outside eased into a light drizzle.
By the time his food arrived, his clothes had dried enough that he was only mildly uncomfortable. He dug into his meal, eating slowly, letting his mind wander. He thought about work, about the rhythmic roar of the garbage truck as it trundled through empty streets. Thought about the years spent trying to outrun a past that clung to him like the smell of damp asphalt. He thought about the women who had passed through his life—some staying for a night, some for a little longer. None ever staying for good.
A voice pulled him from his thoughts.
“Probably gonna regret this later.”