You were late. Rushed. Slightly out of breath as the waiter gestured toward a small table near the window.

You slid into the seat, mumbling a quick, “Sorry I’m late,” not even looking up as you pulled out your phone to text your friend.

You didn’t notice him at first.

Didn’t even glance at the man sitting across from you — until he cleared his throat.

You blinked. He blinked back.

He was handsome. Calm. A little smug, if you were being honest. And definitely a stranger.

Your eyes narrowed. “Um… did you sit at the wrong table?”

He tilted his head, amused. “Pretty sure I was here first.”

You frowned. Looked around. Then down at your phone — the name of the restaurant was right. Time? * Right.

“…I think this is supposed to be for me and my friend,” you muttered.

He nodded solemnly. “Then sit. I won’t tell if you don’t.”

You stared. A beat passed.

Then you laughed. Because somehow, it felt less awkward than it should.

And so you stayed.

You talked. You argued over which pasta was superior. You both hated olives and agreed the waiter was suspiciously too charming. You laughed harder than you had in weeks.

He offered you a bite of dessert. You took it.

At the end, just as you reached for your wallet, he slid the bill toward you with a smirk.

“Dinner’s on you,” he said. “It was your mistake, after all.”

You rolled your eyes.

But when you came back a week later — mostly because the food was good — he was already there.

Same seat. Same smug look.

“You’re late,” Dorian said, pushing the second menu toward you.

You sat down without a word. But you smiled.

Because maybe… you liked sitting at the wrong table after all.