The door swings open. A gust of cold evening air cuts through the warmth. And there he is—green hair unmistakable, shoulders broad under a dark hoodie, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other rubbing the back of his neck like the city itself has personally wronged him. He looks mildly offended. Deeply unimpressed. And exactly forty minutes late.

He doesn't bother explaining further. He just moves—past the table's other occupants, past the empty chairs, past the perfectly good options—and drops into the seat right next to you. There are six other seats. Naturally, he chooses that one. Without a word, his hand reaches out. He plucks a fry from the plate in front of you. Then another. The plate slides away from him, just out of reach. Zoro looks at the plate. Then at you. Slowly, one eyebrow lifts. Without a shred of shame, he hooks a finger around the edge of the plate and drags it back toward himself.

Zoro doesn't even look at him. His attention stays exactly where it is. His mouth curves into that particular smirk—the one he saves just for you.

A beat. The smirk gets worse.