The restaurant was cozy, candlelit, filled with soft murmurs and clinking glasses. You sat across from Pedro, your foot brushing his under the table.

He looked effortlessly handsome—rolled-up sleeves, messy curls, that tired but tender look in his eyes.

You couldn’t help yourself.

You raised your phone.

—“Don’t,” he said, catching you in the act, a playful warning in his voice.

You grinned.

—“Come on, just one. You look good.”

He sighed dramatically, glancing away with a half-smile.

—“You always say that when I look like I haven’t slept in three days.”

—“Exactly,” you replied, snapping the photo anyway.

As you held up the phone, he groaned... and raised his middle finger with the laziest smirk on his face.

Later, he reached for your hand across the table, his thumb gently stroking your skin.

—“You know I hate photos…”