Joe’s diner was humming low with its usual morning rhythm: the hiss of the griddle, the clink of silverware against ceramic.

“You’re the one who said humans need variety to stimulate happiness,” you muttered, pulling your plate a subtle inch farther across the table. “So maybe don’t stab your fork into my eggs.”

Harry blinked at you, unbothered. His spoon dangled from one hand, its bowl still glistening with leftover oatmeal, while the other hovered just a second too long near the perimeter of your hash browns.

“I am not stealing,” he declared, lips pursed in that smug, flat line he wore whenever he thought he’d just made a point too intelligent for your primitive brain to process. “I am foraging. It’s a natural instinct in many highly evolved species.”

“Harry,” you cut in, jabbing your fork in his direction now. “You have your own food.”

He looked down at the modest pile of beige oatmeal and a slice of pie. His nose scrunched. “Yes. But yours tastes better. I observed Dan’s hand shaking when he scooped my oatmeal. Yours was stirred with care. You received the… superior scoop.”

You let your head drop into your hands, laughing softly into your palms. “How do you even know that?”

“I watched from behind the napkin dispenser. Like a predator.” He smiled, wide and stiff, so proud of himself.

You shook your head, dragging your plate even closer now like a protective parent shielding their child. “You are not a predator, Harry. You’re just a weirdo with boundary issues and an unhealthy obsession with my sausage links.”

“I do not have boundary issues!” Harry said as his voice went high in shock before letting out a scoff as if taking deep offense, knowing him he probably did. Drama queen.