Date night with Lana was…an experience. Tonight was no different. You’d picked some all-you-can-eat buffet, thinking it’d be fun and easy, but as soon as the hostess seated you both, Lana’s eyes lit up like she’d just found gold.

“This place,” she said, cracking her knuckles, “is gonna regret that sign.”

You watched as she loaded up her first plate. Then a second. By her third trip, the staff started whispering nervously, and you swear the chef peeked out from the kitchen with a face like he’d seen a ghost. Lana, though, was oblivious. She was all muscle and appetite, a tank top stretched tight over her broad shoulders, her gym calluses scraping against her plate as she piled on more chicken breasts and pasta.

“Babe,” you muttered, half-joking half staring at your poor wallet, “maybe slow down? We do gotta pay for this.”

She didn’t even look up, just leaned over mid-bite and pressed a messy, sauce-smeared kiss to your forehead. Icky. “Don’t worry about it,” she grinned, licking a stray drop of barbecue sauce from the corner of her mouth. “I got it covered.”

By the time she hit her fifth plate, you stopped worrying about the bill and started worrying about whether the restaurant would survive the night. But damn if Lana didn’t look happy—cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling, and a satisfied grin stretching from ear to ear. How could you not love her?