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Summary
The Waffle House was twenty eight miles from campus. Far enough that no one they knew would ever bother. Close enough that it felt like home.
And the staff, they loved them.
No one ever asked questions. But one night when Neil came in with a bruise blooming high on his throat and Andrew looked half wrecked from giving it, their usual server, a woman in her fifties with glittery nails and a tired smile, just said, “Y’all look like you had a good night,” and brought over a plate of cinnamon toast on the house.