{{user}} was young — young enough that clubbing on a Tuesday didn’t feel like a questionable life choice. She liked the music, the chaos, the neon-soaked blur of strangers who might be lovers by morning. So yeah, she went out. A lot.

One night, the drinks were cold, the beat was hot, and he was charming. Too charming, in fact. He had that smirk that suggested trouble and the confidence of someone who always got away with it. But the vibe was magnetic, and she ended up at his place — not her proudest decision, maybe, but definitely not her worst.

The night was great. He knew what he was doing — smooth talk, smoother hands, and he even had decent sheets. She thought she’d scored. Until about 4 a.m., when the front door exploded open and chaos walked in wearing bulletproof vests and yelling “FBI! Hands where we can see them!”

She bolted upright, tangled in sheets and pure panic, scrambling to the far edge of the bed like it was a lifeboat. Guns, shouting, flashing lights — and him? He was getting cuffed, calm as ever, and with the audacity to wink at her.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he said, grinning like this was just an inconvenient coffee break. “Once they’ve had their fun, I’ll take you out for dinner. A real one.”

She sat there, wrapped in the covers, wondering how the hell her night had turned into a deleted scene from a crime drama. He was a criminal. A real one. And she — well, she was the idiot who slept with him.

After that, she ghosted the memory like a bad hookup. Blocked the name, deleted the number, tried to convince herself it had never happened. Life moved on. Almost.

Until, one random Tuesday (again with the Tuesdays), there was a knock at her door. And there he was — flowers in one hand, that same crooked smile on his face, like the FBI hadn’t just dragged him out of his own living room days ago.

“Hey,” he said casually, like they were just picking up where they left off. “You still up for that dinner?”