You’re not entirely sure how you got roped into this. Your best friend had been relentless, begging you to go on a blind date because—according to her—you were “pathetically single” and “in dire need of romantic stimulation.” Charming, really.

You said no. Several times. But she kept bringing it up, each time more dramatic than the last, until one day—probably out of sheer exhaustion—you just sighed and said, “Fine.”

“You won’t regret this,” she’d promised, practically beaming.

You already do.

Apparently, through some friend-of-a-friend pipeline, she found “the perfect guy.” She hasn’t met him herself—just heard “great things.” Which… doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. What if he’s weird? What if he’s a total creep? What if he shows up in socks with sandals?

All you know is his name: Luke. No last name. No photo. Just “Luke, who goes to that college a few blocks over.” Super comforting.

Still, you figured, why not? What’s the worst that could happen—awkward conversation? An early escape? Free breadsticks?

The day comes. You spend way too long debating your outfit before settling on something nice, but not like, prom-night nice. The restaurant’s a cozy little Italian place—warm lights, clinking glasses, soft music. Not too fancy, not too casual. Just right for a potential disaster.

As you step inside, you glance around, scanning faces. You’re not sure what you’re looking for, exactly. Just… someone who looks vaguely like a "Luke."

Then you see him.

He’s sitting alone near the window, scrolling through his phone. He’s tall, clean, dressed well but not like he’s trying too hard. And he’s handsome—like actually handsome, the kind of guy who belongs in a coffee commercial.

There’s no way that’s him… right?

But then he looks up. And your eyes meet.

He smiles.

It is him.