Orion's POV — The Diner
The burgers were massive.
Orion could barely look at his. Melted cheese clung to the bun like a second skin, and the patty bled grease into the flimsy paper tray. It was grotesque in a way that would have delighted him a month ago—back when late-night fast food was a reward after a night ride, not an after-breakdown lunch.
He used to crave this kind of thing. Thick-cut fries, neon ketchup, the sugary burn of cola bubbles on the roof of his mouth. The comfort of bad food and bright lights. It used to mean something. It used to mark the end of a normal day.
But now? He stared at the meal like it might bite back.
Franz didn't share the sentiment. He bit into his burger like it owed him money, jaws working methodically, a napkin caught between two fingers to wipe his mouth in elegant, practiced motions. He sat across from Orion, legs casually spread, as if they weren't hiding from everything they'd left behind that morning.
