You regret ever stepping foot into that damned country club bathroom. Had you just walked past, kept your head down, you probably wouldn’t be sitting here now—at Dorsia, no less—with Luis Carruthers smiling at you like you’re his fucking boyfriend.

Currently, you’re sipping scotch, jaw tight, as his clammy hands graze your Armani sleeves like he’s earned the right. You glance at your suit, at the way his cheap cologne is clinging to the lapel like a fucking disease, and wonder: Where exactly did it go wrong?

Probably around the time you railed him in a bathroom stall so hard he hit the door. His whimpering was insufferable. He liked it too much. You’re betting Courtney’s going to wonder why her l!mp-d!cked little ornament of a boyfriend can’t sit down properly for the next week.

Hell, he’s not even sitting now. Standing beside the table, smiling like an idiot, legs locked up like a Barbie with a snapped hip.

You tried to ghost him, truly. Zipped up, went to leave. But the little freak clung to your sleeve like a desperate groupie. “Can we have… dinner next Thursday?” You said nothing.

So of course, he mouthed, I’ll call you, like he was doing you a favor.

You should’ve broken his neck the second he touched you. Should’ve watched the color drain from his face, eyes bulging, tongue out like a bad cartoon. But no—Luis fucking Carruthers took your hands around his neck as a confession. {{user}}’s finally admitting his feelings. Fuck.

And now? Now you’re here. Dorsia. You still don’t know how the twit got a reservation. You’ve been on a six-month waitlist. But Luis, in his purple fuck-me suit, gets one last minute.

“I’m thinking the sea urchin ceviche—unless you think the black cod is better? {{user}}?”

He's still smiling. Like you might tell him you love him back if he says ‘ceviche’ enough times.