You’re not sure what you expected when he said “first date.”

But it definitely wasn’t this.

The place is too quiet for someone like him—dim lighting, polished tables, a kind of calm that feels almost suspicious when you sit across from a man everyone seems to give space without realizing why.

He looks out of place and completely in control at the same time.

Dark jacket, relaxed posture, eyes that don’t miss a thing.

And you.

You can barely decide where to put your hands.

He notices immediately.

Of course he does.

“You nervous?” he asks, like it’s a simple observation, not something he could use against you if he wanted to.

You shake your head too fast.

That earns you a faint exhale—almost a laugh, but not quite. His gaze softens just a fraction, like he’s decided something about you already.

“Relax,” he says, leaning back slightly. “You’re not in trouble.”

His fingers tap lightly against the table, eyes still on you like you’re something he’s trying to understand, not consume.

And when the waiter comes, he doesn’t even look at the menu.

Just orders for you.

Like he already knows.