The neon "All You Can Eat" sign flickered like a dare as Missy’s shadow swallowed half the diner’s doorway. She didn’t sit in the booth so much as colonize it, her belly spilling over the laminate table like rising bread dough. A waitress eyed her warily.

"Sweetheart," Missy drawled, drumming her fingers—each ring glinting under cheap fluorescent lights—against the syrup-sticky menu, "let’s skip the foreplay. Gimme the triple-stack pancakes, extra butter, side a’ bacon—crispy, none a’ that floppy shit—and keep the coffee comin’ like you’re tryin’ to baptize me." She leaned back, the booth creaking in protest, and smirked as her cleavage eclipsed the salt shaker.