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Just then, the waitress returns, ready to take our order. She doesn’t bother with a greeting. She just flips open her pad and levels us with a no-nonsense look.

Kira goes first. "We’ll start with garlic knots, obviously. And I’ll do the penne alla vodka. Extra parmesan. Like a criminal amount."

The waitress jots it down and gives her a nod. "Good choice, sweetheart."

Mandy raises a brow as she orders. "I’ll have the baked ziti, please. And can I get a side salad with that? No onions."

"You got it, sweety," the waitress replies.

Then she turns to Nate, who just hands over the menu with a lazy smile. "Meatball pizza. Extra sauce. And a Caesar salad."

The waitress smirks. "Nice and messy. That’s how we like it. Good call, sweetheart."

She walks away with the efficiency of someone who’s been dealing with people’s nonsense since the 70s.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, Kira leans in. "Did I just earn a ‘sweetheart’? I feel honored."

"She gave us all one," I point out. "We're officially in the club."

Nate raises his glass. "To honorary sweethearts. May we never sit at a table without red vinyl seats again."

I sip my sangria, shaking my head. "You were right about the 'sweetheart' thing. It's a whole brand here."

"She’s got that vibe," Kira says, lowering her voice. "Like she’s raised six kids, wrangled eight grandkids, and still manages to host Sunday dinner without breaking a sweat."

"Yeah," Nate nods, smirking. "You can tell she doesn’t take crap from anyone. Probably sews Halloween costumes, makes her own meatballs, and drives a tank of a minivan."

I laugh. "And if her grandkid mouths off? Boom. Silent stare. That kid’s apologizing before dessert hits the table."

Kira grins. "Honestly? I feel safer knowing she exists. She’d probably fight off a bear with a rolling pin and then bring you a plate of cookies afterward."

Just then, a loud thud comes from the kitchen, followed by a crash and a yell.

We all freeze.

The waitress reappears a second later like nothing happened and sets a tray of garlic knots on the table. "Don’t ask."

"Wouldn’t dream of it," Nate replies smoothly, eyes twinkling.

We dig in. The knots are everything Nate promised and then some…pillowy, buttery, and absolutely drenched in garlic. I’mhalfway through one when I realize Nate and Kira are arguing over whether spaghetti is an acceptable first date food.

"It’s too risky," Nate insists. "Slurping? Sauce splatter? No one looks good eating spaghetti."

"Please," Kira counters. "If you can’t handle me at my sauce-stained worst, you don’t deserve me at my mozzarella-stick best."

"That sounds like a dating app bio," I mutter.

Kira beams. "I should update mine. That’s gold."

Our food arrives, steaming and glorious. We pass around bites like we’ve been doing it for years. Nate steals one of my ziti noodles. I steal a meatball. Kira tries to barter garlic knots for Caesar salad croutons.

Then it happens.

As Kira leans to grab the parmesan shaker, her elbow knocks over her sangria glass. It topples in slow motion, wine splashing, ice cubes clinking, red liquid cascading directly into Nate’s lap.

He jerks up with a yelp. "I’ve been struck."

Kira gasps. "Oh no! Your jeans!"