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“Can we eat now? I’m starving,” Lucas continues. “Watching you pose burned, like, actual calories.”

Amani laughs. “You sat on your ass the whole time.”

“And it was exhausting,” he fires back with a wink.

I slide the camera in its designated bag and sling the strap over my shoulder. “Let’s go before he starts crying.”

Amani’s mouth twitches like she’s holding in a laugh. She shoots a brief, knowing glance toward me and whispers out of the corner of her mouth, “Control your gremlin.”

“He’s not mine,” I mutter, reflexively coy. Although honestly, at this point, I should claim him for tax purposes.

The smell of melted cheese and baked dough hit us the second we step inside Pino’s Pizzeria—the kind of old-school pizza joint that looks like it hadn’t changed since the nineties with its checkered red-and-white tablecloths, mismatched fairy lights stringing along the ceiling, and a jukebox that still takes coins but rarely ever works.

The air buzzes with idle chatter, the clatter of plates and the sound of ice falling into cups from a nearby soda machine.

Lucas instantly makes a beeline for a booth, claiming his side by the window. “Ah, civilization,” he claims, collapsing into the seat. “And grease. My two favorite things.”

I slide into the worn leather seat across from him, camera bag beside me. Amani slides in next to me, chin propped on her hand.

“Feet off,” Xavier chirps as he moves in next to Lucas, who reluctantly lifts his feet from the lounge and scoots over.

I internally roll my eyes at the two.

Honestly, I have no clue why Amani keeps showing up to hang with us. These two idiots alone are a full-time job.

I’ve known her the longest, though calling three years “long” feels generous. I met Xavier in my second year at Uni, and through him, met Lucas. Lucas and I, however, clicked instantly, maybe even more than Xavier and I ever did, and the guy’s been glued to my side ever since.

The menus hit the table with a soft thud right after we each got a soda at the self-service counter, and before I can even curl my lips around the straw, Lucas is already leaning forward.

“So, Amani…” he begins, dragging a hand through his hair in what he thinks is a casual swoop but really just makes him look like he’s about to ask for a loan. “If I guess your favorite topping, you’ll have to admit we’re a perfect match.”

Amani blinks once. Twice. Then offers him the gentlest, most devastating smile. “And how the hell does pizza prove compatibility?” she chimes, barely lifting her gaze from the menu. Xavier and I throw each other knowing looks. Here we go again.

“Alright then… pepperoni.” Lucas continues regardless, tone smoother than ever before. “Classic, reliable, just like me.”

“Reliability is measured in years, not toppings.”

Ouch.

“Fine, not pepperoni. Mushrooms. Because you’ve got that mysterious vibe.”

Jesus, he should mercy-kill the conversation already.

But of course, he doesn’t. And Xavier’s sitting there, red as a slapped cheek, drowning in second-hand embarrassment.

“Mushrooms are basically just fungi,” Amani bats, arching a brow at him.

“Okay, okay… olives then. Because you’re hard to read, but worth the taste,” he continues, confidence building despite the lack of progress.

Yet to his dismay and our luck, the server approaches the table–thank fuck–and right on time to put us out of Lucas’s misery.

Moments later our pizza arrives, and I can practically smell the bubbling cheese and the slight burn of the crust.

“Fuck yes!” Lucas exclaims, grabbing a slice the moment the bottom of the hot plate meets the tablecloth. “Life doesn’t get any better than this!” He then continues to shove a piece in his mouth regardless of the steam emanating from it.

“You’re that hungry?” I ask, shaking my head.

“Of course I am! I stood there for hours holding the reflection, or whatever,” Lucas replies with a mouthful. It’s called a reflector, and he barely held it for five minutes before planting his ass in a chair, but I let it slide, seeing as he is enjoying every moment deep-throating that pizza slice.