Finish up at work and hang out with Jeremy.

The office is quiet again, just the faint hum of the terminal and the smell of coffee gone lukewarm on Yvette’s desk. She’s still at your feet, but the urgency’s gone. You stroke her hair once, slow, and feel the way her shoulders settle at the touch.

When you finally nudge her, it’s not a dismissal so much as permission. She slips out from under the desk, straightens in one smooth motion, and brushes herself off. No words, just the faint curve at the corner of her mouth before she turns back to her own chair.

You go back to the files. Property records, cross-referencing dates, updating the case log. It’s almost soothing after the weekend you just had, a checklist you can work through without thinking too hard.

By the time you’ve cleared the last entry, the air between you has gone steady again. Yvette’s on the phone with someone else, her voice all business, so you slide your PocketWatch from your pocket and slot it into the desk port.

Jeremy’s messages blink in green.

— Hey, you get home safe?

— Call me.

— Seriously man, you alive?

— Hey, asshole. I'm about to come by your house and bust down your front door. And who is Mariana?

You lean back in the chair, thumb hovering over the reply pad for a second. Then you start typing.

Alive. Busy. Fill you in later when I get off work.

The cursor blinks. You send it, and watch the little green check appear. The reply comes almost instantly.

— Nope. Not letting you brush me off.

— You drop something like that on me and disappear for two days? Not how friendship works, man.

Sorry. Had to make a short notice run to Houston and I was already running late. Didn't have time to explain.

— Even worse. You meeting me or am I showing up at your office like a crazy ex?

You smirk despite yourself.

You off today?

— Took the day. Figured I would deep clean my apartment but so far I have just stared at my bike for an hour.

Lets get food instead. Half an hour? New Threadgill’s.

— Done. And you are explaining. None of your “later” crap.

Fine.

— Good. And I am ordering first so you cannot run when you see me.

You send back the thumbs-up and pull the PocketWatch free again. Across the desk, Yvette is still on her call, her eyes flicking to you for a moment before she turns back to business.

You shut down the terminal, already thinking about greasy coffee and the way Jeremy is going to lean across the booth like he is interrogating you.

The sun’s sliding low by the time you pull into New Threadgill’s. The building wraps itself around an old silver Airstream like it’s been there forever, the seams between trailer and brick blurred by decades of good food and better stories. The sign’s red paint has faded to something softer, but it only makes the letters look more certain of themselves.

Inside, it smells like biscuits and coffee, like someone bottled Austin from the last century and kept it warm on a back burner. Vinyl booths worn smooth by years of elbows and coffee cups. Framed photos of bands from before the skyline got glassier. Conversation hums under a faint country guitar, and for a moment, the city outside feels far away.

Jeremy’s already in a booth near the back, nursing iced tea. His eyes stick to you as you walk over, measuring something.

“You’re late,” he says, sliding the second menu toward you. “Two minutes from ordering pie out of spite.”

“You’d be doing yourself a favor. They’ve got pecan today?”

He grins. “Of course. This is a diner, not one of your protein-shake bars.”

The waitress shows up with a coffee pot before you can answer. She’s tall, red lipstick just a shade past practical, the kind of smile that waits for permission before going further. She pours for you, her nails brushing your fingers as she hands over the menu. The touch lingers half a second too long.

“You been in before?” she asks, eyes holding yours.

“A few times.” You set the menu down without breaking the gaze. Then you nod toward Jeremy. “We’ll take the usual. Chicken-fried steak for me, chicken tenders for my man here.”

The shift is subtle, but it’s there. Her smile tilts toward polite instead of promising as she scribbles without looking and moves on.

Jeremy watches her go, one eyebrow up. “You really know how to make friends.”

“I’ve got enough.”

He leans back, eyes narrowing. “Alright. Spill it. Who’s Mariana, why did I have to come get her, and where the hell were you for two whole days?”

“It’s a long story.” You sip your coffee. Strong. Bitter enough to be honest.

“I’ve got time.”

The food shows up hot. You cut into the chicken-fried steak, chew, and keep it plain. “Mariana’s a refugee. Found her hiding in the bushes next to my house. Didn’t seem right to send her back out.”

Jeremy tilts his head. “Same night you tried to take a bullet for me?”

“When you put it like that, guess who’s paying the tab.”

“Don’t do that again. I’d rather take a hit than watch you bleed out on a staircase fighting some clown with a gun. Besides, I was about to matrix that shit.”

“You’re a moron. But yeah, I’m sorry. Reflex. And if I ever go out early saving someone, it’s going to be someone I actually care about. Not some guy I only keep around because we met driving for UberDash and bonded over a video game old enough to need a museum plaque."

“Yeah, fuck you too.”

Jeremy smirks, then his tone shifts. “Remember Barton Creek? Two homeless guys going at it under the bridge. One’s about to brain the other over a backpack, and you’re in there before I can even blink.”

“He was going to kill the guy.”

“Yeah, but I still had to talk you out of breaking the other guy’s arm.”

You almost smile. Then his eyes sharpen. “So… the guy who shot at you?”

The answer catches on your tongue. “Haven’t checked. Haven’t thought about it.”

“That’s not you. You always want the last page of the story.”

You shrug. It feels like the question slid past something you didn’t know was there. “Feels over.”

Jeremy studies you for another beat, like he’s weighing whether to push harder or let it drop. In the end, he just leans back and reaches for his tea.

“Fine. But if this ends with you in a ditch somewhere, Your epitaph on your gravestone is going to be: Here lies Ryan Gallagher, dumbass that died in a ditch because he was too stupid to listen to his best friend.”

You crack a half-smile. “That’s fair.”

The waitress returns with two heavy plates, the smell of gravy and fried batter filling the space between you. She slides yours into place, sets Jeremy’s in front of him, and tops off your coffee without asking.

The first bite burns your tongue in that perfect way, heat and salt and pepper gravy melting together. Jeremy’s already dunking his chicken strips into a ramekin of ranch, like a man who’s found religion.

For a while, the only conversation is the clink of silverware and the low hum of the diner. You watch the condensation roll down your glass and let the quiet stretch.

“You know,” Jeremy says finally, “when we met, I figured you were just another delivery guy I’d never see again. But then you had to go and be useful in Path of Exile, and here we are.”

“I try to keep expectations low.”

“Yeah, well. Sometimes you screw that up.”

You nod toward his plate. “Eat your chicken before it gets cold.”

“Yeah, whatever. You ever think about quitting the dead zone runs?” Jeremy asks, taking another bite of ranch smothered chicken tenders.

You glance up. “Not really.”

“It’s not a judgment thing, man. I just… I’ve been watching the news. Houston’s getting worse. You know it. I know it. You've been shot at twice this year already. And now you’re talking about strangers living in your house. That's not you. At least the you I remember.”

You take another bite of steak, chew slow. “I’m careful.”

“That’s not the same as safe. Why even do it? It’s not like you need the money that bad. You’ve got steady PI work, the house deal. You could stick around here, do normal jobs.”

You shake your head and push a bit of gravy around your plate. “Normal doesn’t always work out for me.”

Jeremy studies you like he’s trying to spot the seam in a welded plate. “You’re not gonna tell me.”

“No.” You sip your coffee. “I’m not.”

He exhales through his nose, half a laugh, half frustration. “One of these days, man, I’m going to find out you’ve been working for Homeland Security or some shit.”

You smile, just enough to make him wonder. “One of these days.”

Jeremy leans back, letting the tension slide out of his shoulders. “Alright, fine. If you’re going to be a brick wall, let’s talk about something safer. Remember when we used to burn entire weekends on Path of Exile III?”

You snort. “Yeah. And your build was garbage every single league.”

“It was experimental,” he says, pointing a chicken strip at you like it’s exhibit A. “You went cookie-cutter meta every time.”

“I went ‘functional’ every time.”

He grins. “That old PC I dragged from my parents’ house used to sound like it was prepping for liftoff. Fan whine, coil whine, the works. I had to kick the side panel to get the GPU to seat right.”

You smirk. “I remember. Your character would freeze mid-map, and I’d be in voice chat listening to you swear and kick it back to life.”

He laughs, shaking his head, then tilts it. “So what about now? You still playing anything, or are you too busy getting shot at?”

You shrug. “Street Brawler.”

Jeremy blinks. “Wait. Street Brawler? You’ve been playing my game?”

“Your game?”

“Top 100 on the West Coast server,” he says, grinning like he just sprung a trap. “That’s not bragging, that’s just fact.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why does this conversation sound familiar?”

“Because Street Brawler is amazing. You can’t even play from home — bandwidth will fry your modem. You’ve got teams, sponsors, tournaments. Last year’s prize pool was a hundred grand.”

You blink. “For punching pixels?”

“For dominating pixels.” He spears another chicken strip. “And here’s what gets me. When I asked you to try it, you laughed me out of the room. Now you’re playing?”

You sip your coffee. “A girl I’m tutoring asked me to play.”

He freezes mid-chew. “You’ve been dodging me for months, but the second some cute little schoolgirl asks, you’re in?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Oh, I bet it’s exactly like that.” He leans forward, lowers his voice, and bats his lashes in the most unsettling way possible. “‘Oh, Mister Ryan… I’m just so helpless in Street Brawler… all these big, scary men keep knocking me down… I wish someone strong could… show me the ropes…’”

You groan. “Stop.”

He tilts his head, doubling down. “‘Maybe we could do a private match first… so I can get used to your… combos…’”

You throw a fry at him. He catches it in his mouth without missing a beat. “‘And if I’m really good… maybe you’ll… rank me up.’”

“Jeremy.”

He grins, shameless. “What? I’m just trying to learn the magic words for next time I want something from my bestie.”

“You’re a moron.”

“And yet,” he says, leaning back like a man about to drop the final blow, “Rank 45 on the West Coast server. Come, Padawan. I have much to teach you.”

“Congratulations. You’re the LeBron James of fake street fights.”

“LeBron wishes he had my APM.” He takes a long sip of iced tea. “If you’re serious, you should come to the hub. Not a kiddie arcade — a real hub. Pro rigs, arena seating, soundproof pods. They even serve drinks if you’ve got the credits.”

“You mean pay-to-lose against teenagers?”

“Pay-to-get-humbled by me, more like. But hey, it’s your funeral.”

You poke at your plate. “I’ll think about it.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll quit before I get the joy of publicly humiliating you.”

“You have such a way with words.”

“Come on. If you’re playing Street Brawler, you’ve got to do it right. I haven’t won a sparring match against you in a year. I need an ego boost. And besides, your little schoolgirl’s going to kick your ass if you don’t learn the basics from me.”

“That’s not why I—”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” He’s already sliding out of the booth, tossing cash on the table. “Talky time’s over. It’s fighty time.”

You hesitate, eyeing your coffee, but the truth is you’ve been thinking about it since dinner started. If Irene’s going to keep inviting you into Street Brawler matches, you’d like to win at least once before she retires you out of pity.

Jeremy’s halfway to the door when you grab your jacket. “Fine. But if I win even once, you’re never allowed to talk trash again.”

“Yeah,” he says, pushing the door into the night air, “that’s not happening.”