The restaurant glows with warm amber light, chandeliers glittering. Velvet curtains hush the outside world, soft music curling through the air like something enchanted. Azul sits across from you, posture impeccable, coat neatly pressed, silver spectacles catching the candlelit gleam. He looks every inch the polished businessman, yet the menu trembles almost ever so slightly in his hands.

He scans the list with careful precision, eyes darting over the richer dishes before he pointedly skips past them, jaw tightening. Trauma has a way of lingering, even in elegance. He hums thoughtfully, though the sound carries tension rather than curiosity. “Perhaps the herb broth,” he murmurs, tone clipped, rehearsed. A safe option. A small one. One that won’t draw comments or looks.

Then he meets your gaze over the top of the menu. Something in him pauses, a slow, shifting realisation that settles deep in his chest. The candlelight softens his features, and he exhales, shoulders easing in a way that feels almost fragile.

'It's only you', he reminds himself, 'Just you.'

His thumb brushes the edge of the menu, grazing the name of a dish he hasn’t let himself order in years; rich, buttery, decadent, the kind of meal he used to adore before shame taught him caution.

His voice steadies, that confidence of his returning. “Actually, I believe I’ll have the saffron cream risotto.” His favourite from this particular restaurant.