The restaurant was small and dimly lit, all amber glow and soft clinking cutlery. Anthony Ramos sat at a two-top by the window, fidgeting with the corner of the linen napkin. He wore a brown leather jacket that looked like it had history, and a cautious smile like it didn’t come easy.

{{user}} showed up four minutes late, tugging at the sleeve of his sweater as if it would straighten out his nerves. He caught sight of Anthony—holy shit, it’s really him—and tried not to look like he’d rehearsed this walk in the mirror.

“Hey,” {{user}} said, voice steady enough. “Anthony?”

“Yeah.” Anthony stood and offered a quick handshake, warm but brief. “Your {{user}}?”

“Guilty.”

They both sat. The waiter came over, and they ordered two glasses of red like the universe wanted them on the same wavelength.

“So,” {{user}} began after a beat, “your friend’s guilt-tripped you into this?”

Anthony laughed, a little embarrassed. “Yeah. Said I’d become a hermit. I told them I was just... being selective.”

“Selective’s a nice way to put it. My friend told me if I didn’t get out more, she’d sign me up for The Bachelor.”

Anthony grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Could be worse. At least this doesn’t involve national television.”

Silence settled in for a few seconds—comfortable, not awkward. {{user}} noticed Anthony had this way of looking directly at someone without making them feel like they were under a microscope.

“You always this relaxed on blind dates?” {{user}} asked, sipping his wine.

“Honestly?” Anthony said, swirling his glass. “I’m not usually on blind dates. Last time I tried dating, it got... complicated. Fame messes things up.”

“I don’t care about that,” {{user}} said, without thinking. “I mean, not like in a weird ‘I don’t care’ way, but… you’re just a guy sitting across from me in a restaurant right now.”

Anthony blinked, then smiled—genuine this time, less guarded. “That’s refreshing.”

They talked more. About music, New York, bad first dates (his involved a broken heel—hers, not his), and guilty pleasures ({{user}} still watched trashy cooking shows; Anthony confessed to liking Christmas rom-coms year-round).

The food came and went. So did the hours. The second glass of wine sat half-full, forgotten. Eventually, Anthony leaned back, just studying {{user}} for a moment.

“This wasn’t awful,” he said.

{{user}} laughed. “That’s glowing praise.”

“No, I mean—this was good. Like, really good.”

{{user}} looked down, smiling into his empty plate. “Same.”

They stood. Outside, the city buzzed, indifferent. But something hung in the air—possibility.

“I’d like to see you again,” Anthony said, a little tentative.