Crowded into a corner booth, Killian watched as the lunch rush died down. He’d been sitting there for the better part of an hour, much to the chagrin of many families, necks craned as they searched for a spare booth. But if Killian heard their tuts and saw their dirty looks, he paid them no mind. His legs were stretched languidly across the cracked upholstery, nursing a black coffee in one hand as he waited for Amira to finish her shift. He did this sometimes, when his own business was slow or he simply tired of pacing the floor in their shared apartment. He would tug on his jacket and make his way down to the diner so that he might walk her home. Killian knew Amira could handle any trouble someone might give her on that walk, but he still craved her company.
Plus, he enjoyed the secret little smiles she’d send him from across the floor. Or watching her get on her tiptoes to reach the top shelf, agile as ever, her shirt riding up around her stomach. Although, he’d never quite admit that last part. Callum gave him enough shit for mooching around the diner.
A commotion drew Killian’s attention, a flash of blonde hair racing past his table. Normally he would put the urgency down to a stressed waitress or a harried Mother chasing a toddler, but something about her just didn’t seem right. Oddly enough, the young woman was snatching up napkins, running the rough paper over her skin in a manner that could only be described as manic. Killian’s stomach bottomed in sympathy. He’d been there, with Saskia tapping her foot impatiently as he washed his hands for the third time, or looking around in embarrassment to make sure nobody noticed Killian’s strange behaviour.
Nine times out of ten, Killian would have ducked his head, looked the other way. Maybe it was Amira, whose mere presence made him lighter and kinder, or maybe it was that he saw himself reflected in the panic on the poor girl’s face. Whatever it was, Killian found himself rising from his seat, heading over to… he wasn’t sure yet. Enquire after her?
Instead, as he moved to meet her, the woman turned, hands shaking, so involved in her own personal crises that she failed to see Killian, tall and wiry as he was. Her grip loosened on the bag as her body collided with his, the bag dropping to the floor with a sad, wet sound.
Unsure what to do now that he’d gotten here, Killian simply knelt beside her, making sure to avoid contact with a squashed fry or two. Any other person would lay a hand on her shoulder, extend a hand to help her up. But Killian wasn’t any other person.
“You’re not stupid.” Killian said, his words coming out harsher than they should’ve, given the situation. “I watch people drop their food here all the time. It’s not an issue.”
But distress was still painted across her features, and as Killian’s eyes moved to her still-shaking hands, a thought struck him.
“Do you need to wash your hands? I can get you to the staff toilets. My gi-” Killian paused, tugging at his collar with a gloved hand, before starting again, “My friend works here.”
Standing to his full height, Killian carelessly kicked the bag aside.
“Get up. You’re alright.” he attempted to comfort her, though he doubted his words had the desired effect.
As embarrassing as it was to admit, Cassandra was used to frequent eye rolls and huffs being directed at her. She was accustomed to panic attacks, to scrambling on the floor after losing purchase of her belongings in a manic state as people stepped around her, offering no assistance. In truth, she’d never fully understood why it would bother her so much when Dean replicated those same responses, always looking at her like she was the greatest nuisance he’d ever had the displeasure of meeting. But in the end, it always stung a little, no matter how common it was.
When the man she’d collided with simply knelt down and begun helping her, his tone was lost on her entirely. Instead, Cassie stared up at him — even kneeling, he had a good head in height on her, was he some kind of giant? — her brow creasing, lips puckering in confusion. He was helping her, offering her words of encouragement, and not once had he laid an unwanted hand on her. Admittedly the bar was very low, but the gratitude ballooned in her chest.
“You’re wearing gloves,” Cassie blurred out, bypassing every kind word and every question, the desire to thank him lost on her as she stared at the leather encasing his hands.
Shaking her head, she released a choked laugh, “Sorry. It’s just— there’s a heatwave. And you’re wearing gloves.”
She blushed, ducking her head in embarrassment, an array of fries abandoned in her hand. By the time she found her voice again, it was soft and timid, exhaustion coating her words.
“But I’d love to use your girlfriend’s bathroom, yes. If you could show me?”’
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