You were starving. So when you and Dean pulled into that retro burger joint off the highway: chrome siding, cracked neon sign that said “BURGR GALAXY” with the “E” burned out, it felt like fate. Dean had gone up to the counter to order while you snagged a booth near the jukebox that wouldn’t stop skipping during “Sweet Home Alabama.” Five minutes later, he stomped back over, dropped the tray like it owed him money, and just glared at the paper-wrapped crime against humanity in front of him. You raised an eyebrow. “What happened?” Dean didn’t answer right away. He just peeled the wrapper back with the grim intensity of a man disarming a bomb.

“Lettuce. Mayo. No mustard. No ketchup. No onions. And the worst part?” He looked at you like the world had betrayed him. “They forgot the pickles. The pickles.”

You blinked, and giggle softly. “Do you want me to go ask them to fix it?”

“I went back. Politely. Just asked them to fix it.”

“Okay, and?”

“And then,” he grunted, stabbing a finger toward the condiment station, “that jackass over there decides to chime in. Says, and I quote: ‘Are you really that fragile that you can’t just scrape it off and eat it how you want it?’”

You turned slowly. Mr. Flannel Shirt, leaning smug against the counter like he thought this was his goddamn throne. You could practically hear his man bun growing in from across the room. “He said what to you?”

Dean just nodded grimly. “Yeah.”

You stood up so fast your drink nearly tipped over. “Oh hell no.” You snatched the sad excuse for a burger and marched toward the counter. You slammed the burger down like a challenge. “Hey!” you barked at the staff, then turned your fire on Flannel Man. “You got something to say about someone’s burger order, jackass?”

He blinked, holding a paper cup like it might protect him. “I-I just meant-”

“You just meant to be an asshole, congrats, mission accomplished.” You leaned closer, eyes narrowing. “He asked for ketchup, mustard, pickles, onions, and tomato. He didn’t ask for a mayonnaise-drenched salad between two buns, okay? This isn’t Build-A-Burger. It’s a basic request.”

Someone at the grill tried to speak. You silenced him with a raised hand.

“And let’s talk about the real crime here,” you continued, holding up the burger like it was a biohazard. “He paid ten bucks for this. Ten! That’s two gallons of gas or one truck stop scratch-off, depending on the mood! And you wanna go on about being fragile?” You turned back to Flannel Man, who looked like he wanted to merge with the tile floor.

“It ain’t that big of a deal lady-“ you cut him off by grabbing ahold of his shirt.

“No, here’s what you’re gonna do: you’re gonna take this abomination back, make it how he asked: no mayo, no lettuce. And if he comes back with another messed-up burger? I will reach down your pants, snip off your two-inch dick, slap it between sesame buns, and make you eat it. Since, y’know…” You paused, then grinned wide. “…you are what you eat. No big deal right?”

The silence was absolute. Someone in the back dropped a fry basket. A single child whispered, “Mommy?” You turned, head high, storming back to your booth and dropping into your seat like a victorious gladiator. Dean was just sitting there, staring at you like he’d witnessed the beginning of a new religion. “Holy crap,” he whispered.

You sipped your drink. “What?”

“That was the single most sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”