It was one of those perfect late-summer nights in the city — warm enough to go out without a jacket, but cool enough that the air still felt crisp against your skin. Streetlights glowed gold against the dark, and the sound of the city was alive but not overwhelming.

You’d been buried in work all day, and Xavier had been stuck in back-to-back meetings, so when he called and said, “Meet me downstairs, we’re getting dinner out,” you didn’t even argue. You just grabbed your phone, slipped into an oversized hoodie over your dress, and took the elevator down.

He was waiting at the curb, leaning against his sleek black car like he’d stepped out of an ad — hands in his pockets, head tilting with that familiar smile when he saw you.

“Not going anywhere fancy,” he said, opening the passenger door for you. “Hope you’re okay with that.”

“Fancy’s overrated,” you grinned. “What are we doing?”

He didn’t answer — just smirked, got in, and drove.

You didn’t figure it out until he pulled into a side street lined with parked cars and fairy lights strung between lampposts. A little crowd had gathered, music floated from somewhere nearby, and the smell — smoky, rich, and mouthwatering — hit you instantly. There it was: a food truck, painted a warm yellow, its chalkboard menu scribbled with all sorts of messy, delicious-looking options.

“Oh my god,” you murmured, grinning like a kid. “You brought me to street food heaven.”

Xavier just looked smug. “I figured you wouldn’t mind getting your hands dirty.”

The line was long enough for you to chat while you waited. His arm brushed yours every so often, and at one point, when you shivered from the breeze, he shifted so his chest was at your back, warm and solid, his chin resting on your shoulder while you scanned the menu together.

“What are you getting?” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear.

“Probably tacos,” you said, still eyeing the chalkboard.

He made a soft, amused sound. “Good. Then I’ll order something different so we can share.”

When you reached the front, he paid before you could even get your wallet out, and a few minutes later you were perched together on a nearby bench, the glow from the fairy lights overhead making the whole street feel like a tucked-away pocket of magic.

Your taco was messy in the best way — sauce dripping, tortilla falling apart — and you caught him watching you with an amused smirk as you tried to keep it from completely collapsing.

“Stop staring,” you laughed, reaching for one of his fries.

“You’re cute when you eat,” he said simply, offering you his food without hesitation. But then, just as you took a bite, he swiped half of your taco, taking the biggest bite possible.

“Xavier!” you smacked his arm, but he was already laughing, wiping sauce from the corner of his mouth.

“Worth it,” he said. “Yours is better than mine.”