The city was alive, glowing with neon and the distant hum of laughter and car horns. A crisp night air wrapped around them as they slipped through the side entrance of the restaurant—one of the few places in LA where cameras didn't lurk. The scent of garlic and fresh basil clung to the air, the low hum of jazz weaving through clinking glasses and murmured conversations.

Milo exhaled, running a hand through his hair, the dim candlelight catching in his eyes. "Feels weird, right?" he murmured, his voice low, almost swallowed by the background noise. His fingers found hers beneath the table, a fleeting touch before he had to pull away.

A waiter passed, and instinctively, they leaned apart. Too much caution, too much distance. They weren’t strangers, but they had to act like it. It was always like this.

The weight of it settled in his chest, heavy and aching. They’d never had this before—a real moment. No rushed goodbyes in underground parking lots, no fleeting touches in darkened hallways, no whispered calls at 3 AM. Just them, in the open, almost normal.

Almost.

The flicker of a phone camera in the corner shattered the illusion. He tensed. Their time was up.

His jaw clenched, eyes dropping to the table before lifting to hers—soft, apologetic, aching.

His voice was barely above a whisper when he spoke.

"Guess we still don’t get to have a first date."