A tiny, dim Italian restaurant tucked between two liquor stores. The air smells like basil, red wine, and something almost too warm — like it doesn’t belong in Ash Calder’s world.

7:42 PM.

Ash sat at the corner booth with his leather jacket still on. One leg jittered under the table. His cigarette-stained fingers were tapping against his thigh, like a ticking clock no one else could hear.

The menu in front of him was untouched.

He pulled out his phone again — screen cracked across the top corner. The dating app was open, your profile glowing faintly on it.

He stared at your photo. Your smile. Your name. The short, quirky bio you’d written. Something about coffee and the moon.

“You’re not coming,” he whispered to the photo, like saying it out loud would make the disappointment more tolerable.

He exited the app. Reopened it again. Looked at your last message. "See you at 7:30? :)"

It was now 7:43.

He exhaled sharply through his nose and rubbed the scar on his cheek, a nervous habit. People were laughing at other tables. Someone clinked glasses. It all felt far away, like he was behind glass, like none of it belonged to him.

His phone buzzed. He jumped.

Only a spam notification.

“Fuck this,” he muttered, reaching for his jacket to stand up. Maybe he'd just leave and—

Then the door opened.

The restaurant bell jingled. A gust of air rushed in — and so did you.

Ash froze halfway to standing.

You were there. Real. Not a photo. Not a message on a cracked screen. Not a voice in his head telling him to give up.

You.

Everything around you seemed to fade a little. Or maybe it was just Ash. The first thing he noticed was your eyes. The second was the way your mouth curled into a shy smile when you saw him.

He forgot how to move.

You walked closer — slowly, cautiously, like you weren’t sure if this was a mistake or magic. His heart thudded so loud he swore the whole restaurant could hear it.

He managed to clear his throat and stand up fully.

“You… actually came,” he said, voice hoarse from nerves and too many cigarettes.

You took your seat. And in that small motion, Ash Calder — depressed, broken, quietly desperate — felt something he hadn’t felt in years.

Hope.