Mary was this close to passing out on the diner table.
Her body screamed for sleep, her eyelids felt like sandpaper, and her brain—her poor, overworked brain—was basically held together by sheer spite and caffeine fumes. She blinked blearily at the Sparkys Diner menu, struggling to focus on the tiny, grease-stained letters.
She wasn’t even hungry. She just needed coffee.
Desperately.
Two hours. That was all she had before she had to clock in at Candy’s for yet another thrilling (read: soul-sucking) night of sitting in a dark office, flipping through camera feeds, and hoping she didn’t die in a ridiculous workplace accident.
Because make no mistake: falling asleep on the job wasn’t an option.
Falling asleep meant suicide by animatronic.
And Mary was not about to be taken out by a discount Chuck E. Cheese reject.
She rubbed her temples, trying to will her exhaustion away. The factory job had been worse—way worse—but at least there, the machines hadn’t moved when she wasn’t looking.
She sighed and waved down a waitress, a tired woman in a neon pink uniform who looked about two orders away from quitting.
“Coffee. Black. Biggest cup you got,” Mary said.
The waitress grunted in acknowledgment and trudged off.
Mary slumped back in her seat and stared out the diner window, watching the headlights of passing cars blur together in the night. Just two hours. Stay awake for two more hours.
“Rough night ahead?”
Mary nearly jumped out of her skin.
The voice was low and familiar, and when she turned toward the source, she found herself looking straight into the face of that biker guy.
Mike.
The same guy who’d given her a ride home two days ago.
He was sitting in the booth across from hers, slouched against the seat like he was trying to physically merge with it. He had a cup of coffee in front of him, and judging by the half-dead look in his eyes, he was in a similar state of total exhaustion.
“You again,” Mary said, blinking at him.
Mike lifted an eyebrow. “You sound disappointed.”
Mary snorted. “Nah. Just surprised. Didn’t take you for a diner guy, James Dean fanboy.”
Mike immediately frowned. “I am not a James Dean fanboy.”
“Uh-huh,” Mary said, smirking. “Sure. That’s why you’re literally dressed like him.”
Mike scoffed, crossing his arms. “I don’t even own a red jacket.”
“Yeah, but you got the broody rebel attitude down.”
Mike opened his mouth, probably to argue, but then the waitress arrived with Mary’s coffee, setting it down in front of her with all the enthusiasm of a corpse.
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Mary eagerly grabbed the cup, taking a long sip and sighing in relief as the hot liquid burned its way down her throat.
“You come here a lot?” she asked after a moment, watching as Mike took a sip from his own cup.
“Sometimes,” he said. “It’s quiet.”
Mary tilted her head. “That why you’re here now? Or are you just that addicted to coffee?”
Mike’s expression flickered—something quick, something tight.
“Just needed to get away,” he said vaguely, staring at his cup.
Mary didn’t press. She wasn’t an idiot. That was the kind of answer that meant don’t ask.
Instead, she took another sip of coffee and let the silence settle.
“So,” Mike said, after a beat. “You’re working again tonight?”
Mary groaned. “Yeah. Another night in hell.”
Mike let out a low chuckle. “Candy’s really that bad?”
“Oh, no,” Mary said. “It’s worse.”
Mike smirked. “Bet my job’s worse.”
Mary scoffed. “Oh, please. You sit on your ass at Freddy’s just like I do at Candy’s. I doubt you’ve seen anything worse than—”
She cut herself off fast.
Almost too fast.
Mike blinked at her, but if he noticed anything weird about the sudden shift, he didn’t say so. Instead, he smirked again.
“Oh yeah?” he said. “You think your job is worse than mine?”
Mary leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table. “I know it is.”
Mike raised an eyebrow. “And why’s that?”
“Because I have to deal with greasy teenagers breaking into the restaurant for free food, a manager who doesn’t know what a pay raise is, and an animatronic penquin that keeps asking me for my order even when I have my employee badge on,” Mary shot back.
Mike snorted. “Oh yeah? Try dealing with a rat infestation, a boss who gets way too excited about birthdays, and power breaking down every shift.”
“Sounds like a you problem.”
“You’re one to talk.”
They locked eyes, neither willing to back down.
Finally, Mary smirked. “Still a James Dean fanboy, though.”
Mike’s face went red. Actually red.
Mary stared.
Then she grinned.
“Oh my God,” she said, laughing. “I actually got you to blush.”
Mike scowled. “You did not.”
“You totally did.”
Mike groaned and rubbed his face, clearly regretting ever talking to her.
Mary took another sip of her coffee, satisfied with her victory.
----------------------------------------
The conversation drifted after that, mostly back to their jobs.
They talked about the usual night shift struggles—being alone in the dark, cheap managers, and, of course, how absolutely awful it was to sleep scheadual.
She both left out the other stuff.
Like how the animatronics at the restaurants were acting weird.
Like how she´d both seen things they shouldn’t have.
Instead, she kept it normal. Kept it safe.
Then she joked that he must have been desperate for cash if he applied to work at Freddy's. She thought she would get a laugh but no instead she got-
“Well, you’re way too gorgeous to be working at Candy´s,” Mike said, casually, like he wasn’t about to send Mary straight into shutdown mode.
She choked on her coffee.
“What?”
Mike just shrugged, smirking slightly. “Just saying.”
Mary stared.
There was silence.
A lot of silence.
Then, finally—
“Alright, I’m leaving.”
She stood up way too fast, fumbling for her jacket, her heart definitely not pounding.
Mike blinked, caught off guard. “Wait, what?”
Mary ignored him, reaching for her bag.
“Mary—”
“Good talk, gotta go, work time, haha bye,” she said in a rapid-fire burst of words.
She turned, already half out the door—
Then hesitated.
Because damn it, the guy looked lonely.
Mary clenched her jaw, then grabbed a pen from her pocket, scribbled something on a napkin, and slammed it down on the table in front of him.
“Here,” she muttered. “For work stories. That’s it.”
Mike picked up the napkin. His eyes flicked over the number scrawled across it, then back up to her, amused.
Mary’s face burned.
Mike opened his mouth to say something.
Mary turned on her heel and ran.
----------------------------------------
Mary walked very quickly to her job.
She was not embarrassed.
She was just—hurrying.
For work.
Because she was responsible.
And because if she didn't Candy or Cindy or whatever can sneak into her office and wait for her there.
Yes, that's it.
Not because she just gave her number to a rival restaurant’s night guard.
Not because he was annoyingly attractive despite being an absolute weirdo.
No.
This was purely a professional thing.
Because night guards had to stick together.
That was definitely the only reason.
And if she told herself that enough times, maybe she’d actually believe it.