Early morning, roadside diner just outside Amarillo

The sun hadn’t fully cleared the horizon yet. A faint pink glow spread across the dusty Texas sky like a tired yawn. Thane, Gabriel, and Mark sat huddled in a cracked vinyl booth inside The Saddle & Griddle—an ancient greasy spoon that smelled like burned bacon, black coffee, and twenty years of crushed dreams.

The waitress had called everyone “honey,” hadn’t blinked at Gabriel’s claws, and had already brought a full pot of coffee before anyone even asked. She clearly knew the type.

Mark sat across from the other two, fur slightly rumpled, blue polo shirt wrinkled from the long drive, and a sour look on his muzzle that screamed he’d been awake since before the concept of mercy. He stirred three creamers into his coffee with the lifeless precision of a man surviving on sheer caffeine and spite.

Gabriel, bright-eyed as always—even after a full night riding shotgun in the van—flipped through the laminated menu like it was a treasure map.

“Ooh, hey! ‘Lone Star Stack’—eight pancakes, eggs, sausage, hash browns and toast. You think it’s named after an actual star or just the state?”

Mark didn’t even glance up. “It’s named after the inevitable heart attack.”

Thane smirked behind his chipped mug. “He’s not wrong.”

Gabriel grinned at Mark. “Come on, old wolf. You need something greasy to bring you back to life.”

Mark sighed with the weight of the world and set down his spoon like it had personally wronged him. “I’m beyond saving. Just let me fade into the booth upholstery.”

Their waitress—name tag Ruby, hair up in a shellacked bun that looked structurally reinforced—returned with a pen poised. “Y’all figured out what you want?”

Mark pointed at the menu without lifting his head. “Whatever has the fewest moving parts and the lowest emotional investment. And no melon.”

Ruby raised an eyebrow. “So… eggs, toast, bacon. Black coffee. No drama.”

Mark finally looked up and gave a single solemn nod. “That. Exactly that.”

Gabriel ordered the Lone Star Stack, obviously, and Thane went for the skillet scramble with extra hot sauce—because sleep-deprived werewolf techs run on protein and spite.

As Ruby walked off, Mark leaned back in the booth and looked at both of them. “You know what’s sad? This isn’t even the worst diner we’ve ever been in.”

Gabriel snorted. “You mean the one in Tulsa where the table collapsed under your plate?”

“No,” Mark said, deadpan. “The one in Kansas where the ‘meatloaf’ tried to bite me back.”

Thane chuckled. “I still say that wasn’t meatloaf. That was punishment.”

“Whatever it was,” Mark muttered, “it had an agenda.”

The food arrived fast, clearly slapped together by a cook who didn’t care if his customers were famous, cursed, or undead. The bacon was crisp, the eggs hot, and the toast didn’t scream when stabbed. Honestly, that was good enough.

As they ate, conversation drifted into that cozy, blurry space between exhaustion and the next caffeine hit. Mark stayed quiet, as usual, but every now and then dropped a one-liner that had Gabriel snorting coffee or Thane choking on toast.

By the time plates were cleared, Mark was still tired, still cynical—but his shoulders had eased. Just a little.

Ruby returned with the check and a wink. “Y’all drive safe now. And you,” she said to Mark, “smile once in a while, huh?”

Mark, unblinking: “I’ll put it on the schedule.”

Gabriel leaned toward Thane and whispered, “He’s actually in a great mood.”

Thane grinned. “I know. He only made two apocalypse jokes today.”

Mark, already sipping his refill, mumbled without looking up: “The day is still young.”