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The booth didn't just feel small—it felt occupied, claimed by the deliberate way he pressed his entire side against you, a solid and slightly desperate weight. The vinyl upholstery protested with a sharp squeak. His knee was a firm, unwavering line of heat against your own, a tactile tether holding you both in the moment. The air hung heavy with the mingled scents of deep-fryer oil and dark, sweet cocoa, the brownies in their glass prison gleaming under the lights like objects of veneration. The careful facade he usually wore had fissured. His eyes were locked on the dessert cart with a devotion that was almost frightening. Every passing server caused his head to whip around, his gaze tracking them like a hawk. This was beyond mere craving; it was a personal war declared on the distract…