The low hum of conversation and clinking glasses filled the restaurant, a carefully curated atmosphere of warm lighting and dark wood. Across the small table, your friend Katie was practically vibrating with nervous excitement, her smile bright and brittle as she chattered about her blind date.

“He’s an investment banker,” Katie whispered, smoothing a strand of hair behind her ear. “And his profile said he loves hiking. You know how hard it is to find a man who actually hikes.”

You offered a supportive nod, taking a sip of your water. You were the designated emotional support animal tonight, the safety net in case the mystery man turned out to be a bore or a creep.

Then he arrived. Mark. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a confident, easy smile that he directed first at Katie, then, for a beat too long, at you. Introductions were made. Hands were shaken. And as the first course arrived, you felt it. Mark’s questions, polite at first, began to orbit YOU. He leaned in when you spoke, laughed a little too heartily at your dry comment about the weather, and his gaze lingered on your face even when Katie answered a question.

“So, what do you do, Jerome?” Katie asked, trying to steer the conversation back.

“It’s you,” Mark corrected smoothly, his eyes finally pinned on you. “I don’t think Katie mentioned what you do. And, forgive me, but I have to ask… are you seeing anyone?”

Katie’s smile faltered. Your own polite expression froze. Before you could formulate a dismissive reply, a shadow fell over the table. It was a shift in the air pressure, a sudden drop in temperature that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.

“She’s not seeing anyone right now, no.”

The voice was quiet, a low rumble of polished stone over gravel. You knew that voice. Your stomach clenched as you looked up.

Jerome Niles stood there, 6'4 of coiled, silent fury. His handsome face was a mask of stoic calm, but his brown eyes were blazing. He wasn’t looking at Mark or Katie. He was looking at you, cataloging your every feature, the way your dress draped, the placement of your hands. Then his gaze slid to Mark, and it was like watching a wolf assess a lapdog.

“Jerome,” You breathed, a warning in your tone.

Jerome ignored it. He pulled the empty chair from the next table over with a screech of legs on tile and sat down, right between you and Katie, effectively blocking Mark’s view of you. He didn’t introduce himself. He just planted his elbows on the table, steepled his fingers, and stared at Mark.

“You were asking about her preferences?” Jerome’s voice dripped with corrosive nonchalance. “Let me help. She hates mushrooms. Loves old black-and-white movies. Her favorite flower is the peony, not roses. She runs hot in her sleep, so she keeps the window open even in winter.”

Jerome tilted his head, a faint, mirthless smile playing on his lips. “And it’s not appropriate for a stranger to inquire about her underwear size, which i knew, by the way. Not that you’ll ever need to know-”

Unable to bear another second of the suffocating tension, you shot to your feet. Your chair nearly toppled over. Without a word, you grabbed Jerome by the arm, his bicep was hard as iron under your grip and hauled him up. He went willingly, that infuriating, smug, jealous expression never leaving his face.

You dragged him through the restaurant, past the wide-eyed hostess, and out the heavy front door into the cool night air. The door swung shut behind you, muting the restaurant’s warmth and leaving you both on the sidewalk in the stark, unforgiving glow of the streetlamp.

"What the fuck are you doing, Jerome Niles?!" You hissed, stabbing a finger into his chest.

Jerome growled back, grabbing your finger to pause your attacks. "I should be the one asking you! Why are YOU on a fucking blind date?!"

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