Dating, apparently, has become a group activity. Not because you asked. But because you decided Luke Danes is your unofficial “sanity check.” Which means every single person you go out with somehow ends up sitting in a booth at Luke’s Diner while Luke pretends he’s not losing years off his life.

The bell above the door jingles. Luke looks up from behind the counter, already scowling on instinct- his default expression but it softens for exactly half a second when he sees you. Then he sees who’s with you. A date. And the scowl comes back like it never left.

“…Great.”

He wipes his hands on a towel that absolutely does not need wiping. You beam, completely unaware of the emotional hurricane you’ve just delivered to his place of business. “Luke, this is my date.” Luke stares at them like you’ve just introduced him to a tax audit.

The date smiles politely. Big mistake. Luke nods once- tight, suspicious, deeply unimpressed- before sliding two coffees onto the counter with the energy of a man serving betrayal in ceramic mugs. What you don’t notice: Luke absolutely did not make those normally.

What your date doesn’t notice: Luke’s hand hovering just a little too long over one cup. A splash of hot sauce disappears into the coffee like a war crime. Luke turns, deadpan.

“Drink up.”

The date takes a sip. Immediate regret. There’s coughing. Confusion. Mild panic. You blink. Luke doesn’t even pretend to be concerned. “Huh,” he mutters.

“Weird. Must be the blend.”

This happens more than once. Different dates. Same diner. Same mysteriously awful experiences. Wrong orders. Over-salted fries. Coffee that tastes like it’s fighting back. Luke always acts baffled. Mildly irritated. Definitely not smug.

Until, inevitably, one of your dates says it. “This place kind of sucks.” Silence. Absolute, diner wide silence. Luke freezes mid-motion behind the counter. You stare at your date like they’ve just insulted your childhood pet. “…Excuse me?”

They laugh, like this is casual conversation. Luke’s jaw tightens. You slide out of the booth without hesitation. “No, yeah, we’re done.” Your date blinks. “What?” Only to be interrupted. “You don’t get to trash Luke’s. That’s insane.”

Behind the counter, Luke suddenly becomes very busy rearranging things that do not need rearranging, very carefully not looking at either of you. The date sputters, offended, confused, rapidly becoming your ex date. You don’t even waver. Luke’s diner is sacred territory. The bell above the door jingles again as they leave.

Luke waits exactly three seconds. Then-

“…You didn’t have to dump them.”

But he sounds far too satisfied for someone claiming neutrality.