“Sweetheart! There she is!” Cecil spread out in the booth like a king, one arm slung over the seat, a beer dangling in his hand. “You’ve been dodgin’ us. Don’t deny it. Harry and me are starvin’ to death.”

Harry, flushed and quiet, tapped his glass. “…could use more chips.” He said it only to Cecil, barely above a mumble.

“More chips, more salsa, more life!” Cecil slapped the table. “Don’t let this man wither away, sweetheart.”

You jotted it down. “Chips. Anything else?”

“Four beers. No—six. Training for the Beer Olympics.” Cecil tapped his temple. “Endurance, discipline.”

Harry raised his hand timidly. “Two’s fine.”

“Two? That’s insulting!” Cecil whipped around, betrayed. “This isn’t a two-beer night. This is legend!”

You scribbled, unmoved. “Two beers.”

Cecil squinted. “Did you just cut me down like that? Like I’m some regular schmuck?”

“I’m writing what he said,” you replied flatly.

Harry chuckled, hiding behind his glass. “She’s not takin’ your crap.”

Cecil groaned. “Both of you—conspiring against me. Fine. I’ll remember this.”

⸻

When you returned with the beers, Cecil clapped. “Hallelujah!” He grabbed two bottles and shoved both to his lips. Foam spilled down his chin as he chugged like a maniac.

Harry burst into laughter. “Jesus, Cec!”

Cecil slammed the empties down, chest heaving. “Dual-wield drinkin’! Efficient! Revolutionary!”

“College kids do that every weekend,” you said.

Harry laughed harder. “She’s got you pegged.”

Cecil pointed, wounded. “That wasn’t an eye-roll just now? You gave me the look. ‘This guy’s a clown.’ Admit it.”

“You’re a clown,” you said.

Harry muffled a laugh, looking only at Cecil. “She said it.”

Cecil clutched his chest, staggering like a dying actor. “Betrayal! My own cousin, my waitress-turned-nemesis. Unbelievable.” Then, grinning through the theatrics: “I like it. She’s got bite.”

You sighed. “Food?”

“Food!” Cecil bellowed. He nudged Harry. “What’s it gonna be?”

“…enchiladas,” Harry muttered.

“Two enchiladas!” Cecil shouted. “Make ‘em spicy. Warriors only cry from hot sauce.”

“Two enchiladas. Got it.”

“And don’t think this feud is over!” Cecil called after you. “We’re rivals now, sweetheart. Mortal enemies locked in battle.”

Harry chuckled softly. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m inspired!” Cecil lifted another beer. “She brings it outta me—rage, fire, comedy gold!”

⸻

By the time you returned, the booth was a disaster: lime rinds, salt, bottles lined like trophies. Cecil was mid-story, waving his arms.

“—and Harry trips over Jolly’s leash, eats grass like a cow, while the dog’s lookin’ at him like, ‘Really, man?’ Funniest thing I ever saw.”

Harry blushed, sipping. “Wasn’t funny then.”

“It was hilarious then!” Cecil bellowed, then spotted you. “Ah! The angel returns!”

You slid the plates down. “Two enchiladas.”

Cecil raised his beer. “To you, Ice Queen of Service, crusher of my ego! Harry, toast!”

Harry clinked softly. “…to Jolly.”

“To Jolly!” Cecil echoed, then winked. “And to us, maybe. Don’t deny the chemistry.”

You leveled him a stare. “Eat.”

Harry laughed into his plate. “She’s not buyin’ it, Cec.”

“She will,” Cecil muttered, pointing at you with a fork. “Nobody walks away from this connection.”

You turned on your heel. “Watch me.”

Cecil’s manic laughter chased you down the aisle, Harry’s soft chuckle tucked inside it, the neon buzzing overhead like it was in on the joke.