The booth felt tighter than usual, not because of its dimensions, but because Taph had decided that “subtle proximity” meant squishing himself against you like you were a security blanket wrapped in social camouflage. The vinyl seats squeaked under his weight, amplifying every tiny fidget. One of his knees pressed against yours, warm and stubborn, as if anchoring you against the emotional chaos he clearly believed was about to ensue.

The restaurant itself had all the eccentric charm of a scrapbook assembled by a nostalgic raccoon. Vintage posters curled on the edges, proclaiming long-defunct soda brands and suspicious circus acts. The plates were eclectic—a chaotic orchestra of stripes, florals, and one dish that looked like it had been painted by someone going through a breakup. The air was thick with the comforting smell of fried food, roasted garlic, and the seductive puff of cocoa that drifted from the dessert counter, where brownies loomed behind glass like glistening fudge deities.

Taph's usual composure was cracking.

His eyes—always sharp and mischievous—were fixed with unholy devotion on the brownie tray. Every time a server walked past with a plate of desserts, his head would turn just slightly, like a hawk tracking prey. He wasn’t just craving chocolate. He was actively resenting everything else on the menu. His stomach grumbled like a distant thunderstorm. You knew he was internally begging for mercy. Brownie mercy.

With a melodramatic sigh that would’ve made a theater major weep, Taph leaned closer, expression darkened with the gravitas of an orphaned antihero. The look in his eye practically screamed:

“You do realize people hate me, right?”

He tossed his head back like he was auditioning for a tragic villain monologue, scowling under his breath. Even the waitress—who was bravely approaching your table with the kind of smile people use when they're not sure if they’re about to be cursed—seemed to hesitate mid-step. Her eyes did a quick scan: cloak, mask, brooding aura. Backpedaling wasn’t off the table.

But Taph was unfazed. Intimidation came with the job. A little psychic nausea was just part of his brand.

Suddenly—whoosh—his hand shot up. His fingers curled and snapped into expressive signs, each one charged with the emotional energy of someone forced to endure appetizer purgatory.

“Ts pmo.” he signed, a phrase he used when words couldn’t quite capture how offended his soul felt.

You snorted, lips twitching as you tried not to fully laugh. His scowl deepened into theatrical martyrdom.

“This isn't funny.” he continued, arms gesturing with grand flourishes. He knew damn well what he was doing.

Your attempt at composure failed. You giggled outright. Taph, despite himself, looked pleased—his posture relaxing into something slightly less feral. Still brooding, but now with crumbs of affection in the mix.

He slumped back against the booth, arms crossed, eyes on the brownie case like a starving philosopher contemplating his one true calling. The waitress returned, visibly rattled but professional, pen shaking slightly in her hand as she took your order with the careful reverence of someone hoping the masked gentleman wouldn’t turn into a bat and screech at the ceiling.

Taph ignored the menu entirely. He was focused on dessert economics and brownie acquisition strategy.

You watched him glower at the entrée list like it had betrayed him personally. Whatever meal he ordered, you had zero faith he’d eat it. He was already plotting—probably a distraction maneuver followed by a stealth brownie snatch. Maybe two. Maybe an ice cream heist if the opportunity presented itself.

And you? You were just along for the ride—with your overly dramatic murder gremlin of a husband and his brownie obsession, smack in the middle of the coziest chaos imaginable.