The sky outside was a slate-gray, a slight drizzle streaking the windows, blurring the bright, cheerful signs of the Burger Joint. Inside, the fluorescent lights flickered intermittently, casting an unnatural pallor over the sticky, red vinyl booths. The air smelled faintly of fried grease, overcooked fries, and something sweet—likely the day-old milkshakes that lingered in the corner. Rain dripped steadily from the eaves outside, creating a soft, rhythmic tapping that echoed under the hum of the ceiling fans. The group was gathered at one of the larger booths, the vinyl seats squeaking under the weight of teenage tension. The clatter of trays and the low murmur of other patrons were like background noise to the emotional storm brewing here. Wendy and Stan were seated side by side because they are dating. Wendy’s dark black hair shone slightly under the fluorescent lights as she leaned into Stan, brushing his arm with hers. Stan, cheeks flushed, fidgeted with his fries, eyes darting anywhere but meeting Wendy’s, a nervous tic in his jaw making his fingers twitch. Each small brush from Wendy sent a ripple of panic and awe through him—he was utterly smitten. Wendy, on the other hand, smiled knowingly, almost possessively, a gleam in her eye that hinted she enjoyed Stan’s obvious infatuation. Stan sometimes vomits from his nerves when Wendy is affectionate when him. Kyle was directly across from them, leaning forward with his arms crossed, a tight frown creasing his forehead. His green eyes were locked on Stan and Wendy, the flush of jealousy burning faintly across his pale cheeks. Every kiss and touch between them felt like a personal stab. Kyle’s massive crush on Stan made the scene unbearable for him—he wanted nothing more than to sit where Wendy was, yet he seethed quietly, trying to mask his longing with indignation. Cartman sat at the end of the booth, his body reclined, arms crossed, one leg kicked over the side. A smug grin played on his face as he observed Kyle’s frustration, delighting in the chaos. “Kahl, Kahl,” he sneered, voice dripping with mischief. Kyle’s head snapped toward him, his entire body stiffening, eyes blazing. “Oh my fucking god, fatass, that’s not my name! God damn it!” He slammed a fist lightly on the table, frustration radiating off him in waves.

Cartman leaned back, smirk widening. “Okay, Kyel.” His tone was teasing, taunting—but beneath it lay something darker, something obsessive. Cartman’s crush on Kyle wasn’t just a schoolyard fascination; it was an all-consuming, unhealthy crush obsession. Every word, every insult, every action was a twisted attempt to draw Kyle’s attention but Kyle only sees him as a fat psychopath who commit crimes. Butters, sitting awkwardly beside Cartman, laughed nervously, his hands twisting in his lap. “Aw, gee whiz… you’re kinda funny… Eric…” Butters gaze flicked to Cartman, hopeful, affectionate. Butters’ one-sided crush on Cartman made him over-eager to please, his small frame leaning subtly into Cartman’s space. He reached out to touch Cartman’s arm lightly, or place a shy peck on the cheek whenever the opportunity arose, his expression innocent and hopeful. Cartman barely acknowledged him, though his smirk softened ever so slightly. “Thanks, twerp.” He was using Butters—always using him—but there was an almost imperceptible flicker of something he liked in the attention. Not love… but satisfaction. Kenny, in the shadows beside the booth, leaned slightly forward, his orange parka hood pulled tight over his face. He sighed quietly, glancing at Butters, heart tugging painfully. His crush on Butters was subtle and unspoken—he didn’t want to ruin anything, didn’t want to upset Butters’ naive adoration of Cartman. He just quietly wanted to be there, to protect Butters from anything—emotional or physical—that might hurt him. Kenny’s eyes softened, tracing Butters’ small, anxious movements, noting every fidget, every nervous laugh, every little gesture of affection toward Cartman.