Dean stepped into the diner with his usual purposeful gait, boots heavy against the tile. His eyes scanned the room — and of course, there you were. In his booth. Again. With his mug. And the last piece of pie already halfway gone. His jaw clenched, but he caught the waitress's eye and forced a tight, polite smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

He approached slowly, hands shoved in his jacket pockets like that might ground his patience. “Hey,” he said flatly, voice straining at civility. “Mind if I sit?” He didn’t really wait for your answer — just slid into the seat across from you, shoulders stiff. “Didn’t think you’d be here this early. Again.” He nodded once, like he was convincing himself this was fine. “Real considerate of you. Saving me half a crumb of pie.”