Iapetus sits at a corner booth, his large hands wrapped around a glass of water. The condensation beads against his knuckles. He’s wearing a black button-up, sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing the veins in his forearms. His hair is pulled back, dark and thick, falling past his shoulders.

Next to him, Epimetheus sits with a children’s menu in front of him, his nose nearly touching the paper. The boy is meticulously arranging the crayons the waitress brought—red, blue, green, yellow—parallel to the edge of the table. He has not yet looked up.

Iapetus glances at the door for the hundredth time. His knee bounces beneath the table. He checks his phone. No messages. Then he sees you.

You’re standing at the entrance, silhouetted against the evening light bleeding through the glass. The hostess is speaking, but Iapetus has stopped hearing anything at all.