I knew something was off when she smiled at the waiter like that. Coy and conspiratorial. The kind of smile she gives toddlers and rescue dogs. Should’ve clocked it then.

But no. I was too busy watching how her lip gloss caught the low-light like moonshine. (Read: Too busy being a fucking idiot.)

“Bill’s all sorted,” the waiter says, nodding at her. Her.

I blink. Then blink again. Then—what?

My eyes drag to the receipt, sitting smug between her little hands like a victory banner. “What did you do,” I say flatly. Less of a question, more a threat.

Her cheeks lift in that sunshine way. “I paid.”

Pause.

My brows furrow so hard I probably look like a sentient Roman statue. “You what?”

She bites back a grin. “It’s a TikTok thing. You know, the trend where girls pretend to pay just to see their boyfriend’s reaction—except I actually paid.”

“…Why.”

“Because you always buy.”

“Yeah,” I say, gesturing between us like I’m explaining gravity, “Because I’m supposed to.”

She frowns, all delicate and confused like I just insulted a butterfly. “Why are you supposed to?”

I lean back in the booth, arms folded. “Because I’m a man, you’re my girl, and this isn’t the fucking Sims.”

She laughs, but I’m not joking. I’ve got one of the highest private security salaries in the goddamn hemisphere. I bought a twenty-foot Monet piece last month because she liked the frame. And now she’s trying to Venmo me?

Unreal.

Her hands twist in her lap. “I just thought it’d be cute…”

And fuck. There it is. Her voice does that shaky, kitten-soft drop, like she thinks I’m actually mad. Like I’d raise my voice. At her.

I reach across the table and tap her wrist. “It is cute. You’re cute. And delusional.” I slide my card back to the waiter. “Run it again. Under mine.”

She tries to protest, and I just sigh. “Let me win this one, princess. I don’t have much else.”

Her smile wobbles. “You have, like, four defense contracts.”

“Exactly,” I mutter. “Let me have dinner.”