The restaurant hums with soft jazz and quiet conversation — the kind of warm, candle-lit atmosphere that feels like it’s trying too hard to be romantic. You’ve been staring at the menu for a little too long, trying to pretend you’re invested in the list of pasta options instead of listening to the way your date keeps talking about their favorite gym routines.

It’s not that they’re bad company. They’re polite, charming enough, even funny in a slightly forced way. But something about the whole thing feels mechanical — like you’re performing a version of yourself that’s meant to look like moving on.

Your glass of water sweats against your palm. The scent of garlic and basil fills the air, and laughter ripples from a nearby table. You nod when your date says something — you don’t even register what — and smile just enough to seem polite. You tell yourself this is fine. Normal. Healthy, even. You’re twenty-two now, and you should be over that one person who left six years ago, right?

Except then the restaurant door chimes open.

The sound barely registers at first. But a shift moves through the air — subtle but sharp, like a change in pressure before a storm. And when you glance up, your heart gives a traitorous jolt.

Kang Sihwa.

He’s standing there, framed by the amber light spilling through the doorway, dressed casually — black slacks, a soft cream sweater, hair slightly messy like he’d run a hand through it on the way in. The host is saying something, but he’s not listening. His eyes are scanning the room. Searching.

And then they find you.

For a second, his expression stills — recognition flickering through those dark eyes, followed by something you can’t quite name. Then his mouth curves into that familiar, maddening half-smile, the one that always looks like he’s in on a secret you don’t know yet.

You look away too quickly, but it’s too late. He’s already moving.

Your date is in the middle of a story about hiking trails when Sihwa’s shadow falls across the table. “Well, this is unexpected,” comes that low, honeyed voice — the same voice that once called your name across playground fields and through late-night phone calls.

Your date blinks up, confused. You feel it before you see it — the warmth of him standing just behind you, the faint scent of his cologne threading into the air: something faintly floral, faintly clean, entirely him.

Then, before anyone can react, his arms slide around your shoulders from behind. Not tight, but close enough that his breath brushes your ear as he murmurs, “You really didn’t tell me you had plans tonight.”

The contact freezes you. Your date’s expression flickers from confusion to something bordering on alarm, and Sihwa, of course, notices — because he notices everything. His smile widens slightly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

He tilts his head closer to you, his tone light but unmistakably territorial. “You’ve been ignoring my messages all week,” he says, though it’s a lie — he hasn’t texted once. “Is this why? You trying to replace me already?”

Your date opens their mouth, but before they can say anything, Sihwa finally pulls back — slow, deliberate. He drapes one arm casually over the back of your chair as if he belongs there. “Relax,” he says to your stunned date, laughing softly. “I’m just teasing.”

The stranger across from you doesn’t laugh.

Sihwa glances down at you again, his tone softening. “It’s been a while since we had dinner together. I’ve missed this face.” He reaches out, brushing a stray hair from your cheek with the back of his knuckles — brief, tender, but loaded. Then, leaning just close enough for you alone to hear, he murmurs, “You should’ve told me you were going out. I could’ve driven you here.”

He straightens, his gaze flicking to the other side of the restaurant where a waiter gestures toward an open table. “Guess I should get to my seat,” he says casually, as if he hadn’t just detonated a small social bomb.

Before leaving, he places his hand briefly on your shoulder — firm, grounding, intimate. “Let’s walk home together later."