You hadn’t planned much, just needed to get out of the compound for a bit, breathe air that didn’t smell like cleaning solvent and old gym socks. So you asked Bob if he wanted to come with.

The place you ended up at was aggressively American. Booth seating. Laminate menus. Flags on the milkshake cups. Someone in the kitchen was playing a Springsteen song through the wall like it was a warning. Bob squinted at the menu like it was a scientific text.

“This place has nine different types of chili,” he muttered. “One of them has strawberries. I feel unsafe.”

You chuckled. “Just order a burger like a normal person.”

He ignored that and flagged down the waiter. “Can I get the chili pancake burger?”

You looked up slowly. “The what now?”

Bob avoided eye contact. “It’s on the secret menu.”

“You asked for a chili pancake burger. On purpose?”

“I panicked, okay?”

The food came ten minutes later.

Bob’s was a monstrosity of a burger sandwiched between two thick buttermilk pancakes, doused in chili, with a fried egg and pickles stacked like an afterthought.

“Bob.”

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” he said flatly.

He took a breath, lifted the towering chaos in both hands, and took a bite. Silence. You watched his expression.

“…So?” you prompted.

He chewed slowly, eyes narrowing. He swallowed, then said, “This is the worst thing I’ve ever liked.”

After a quiet moment of you eating, he just sat there, looking down at his food. You knew he didn’t like it. You handed him your burger. He grabbed it hesitantly, not sure if he was allowed to take it.

“Uh, thanks,” he said with a sheepish smile. “I won’t panic next time,” he promised.