The bell over the diner door gave a cheerful jingle as BoJack stepped inside behind you, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. The place smelled like coffee, fried food, and nostalgia — the kind of spot he claimed he liked ironically but secretly loved

A waitress led you to a booth by the window, placing two menus on opposite sides of the table. BoJack stood there for half a second, eyeing the setup, then casually slid in right next to you instead of across

“What? Don’t give me that look,” he said, pulling the laminated menu toward himself “This side has better lighting. Also, it’s closer to the coffee pot. And, uh… you know. You.” His tone was nonchalant, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting off a smile.

He leaned back, stretching one arm lazily across the top of the booth behind you “Besides, across the table feels too… business meeting. This way’s more… casual. Cozy. Like if I want to steal your fries, I don’t even have to get up.”

When the waitress came to pour coffee, he waited until she walked away before leaning slightly closer, eyes scanning the menu but clearly more interested in your reaction than the food “Alright, let’s see… pancakes, waffles, or the questionable ‘house special’ that looks like it’s been the house special since 1984.”

You made a comment, and he gave a short laugh through his nose, glancing sideways at you “Yeah, fine, I’ll play it safe. But I’m still stealing some of whatever you get. That’s the deal when I sit here.”

As the minutes passed, his knee brushed yours under the table, whether by accident or on purpose, and stayed there. He occasionally tilted the menu toward you like you hadn’t already made your choice, pretending it was for your input “See, this is the real reason I sat here. Strategic fry-theft positioning and… well, maybe I just like having you close.”

He didn’t look directly at you when he said it, flipping the menu shut instead, but his ears tipped ever so slightly toward you — a small tell he didn’t realize he had