Saint Theo’s, New York.

Harry doesn’t usually get nervous before dates. Not since… well, not since a long time ago. But here he is, sitting in a velvet-backed chair at Saint Theo’s, staring at the flicker of candlelight on the polished silverware and pretending the gentle clink of glasses isn’t setting his heart a little off beat. The place is classic old-world charm, all deep mahogany panels, soft jazz spilling from hidden speakers, and windows frosted with early spring mist. It smells like wine, leather, and the faintest hint of sandalwood — probably the cologne from the guy at the next table.

He tugs at the cuffs of his navy shirt, trying to steady the slight tremor in his fingers. The shirt’s perfectly pressed, dark hair is still damp from the shower, pushed back casually, but he can’t shake the restless energy that buzzes just beneath the surface, bouncing his leg up and down.

Lucy insisted Harry he’d come here. Said she met someone who could actually understand him — who wouldn’t be blinded by his old life, or the mistakes he’d made. He almost told her to shove it. But something in her voice made him agree.

He checks his watch. Ten minutes early. Of course. Harry takes a breath, sip the water in his glass, and glance at the entrance again. The door swings open.