The evening started off promising. Clark arrived at your door, dressed neatly in his pressed suit and tie, a bouquet of fresh daisies clutched awkwardly in his hands. His smile was earnest, though he fumbled with his words. At dinner, his nervousness grew more obvious—knocking over the water glass, stammering through conversations, and apologizing endlessly when he dropped his fork for the third time. You tried to reassure him with a laugh, telling him everything was fine, but his cheeks flushed an even deeper shade of crimson.

Clark meant well, but when the waiter set down the check, he managed to accidentally lightheartedly comment,

"Guess I'm not the smoothest date, huh?"

His clumsy charm earned a smile, but as the restaurant erupted into commotion—people pointing and staring out the window—you realized he was gone.

Hours later, after he’d "stepped out for some fresh air" (you both knew someone needed saving), Clark returned. His glasses askew, hair ruffled, shirt slightly singed, he gave you the gentlest, most apologetic smile.

“I’m so sorry… I just ruined tonight. I’ll make it up to you, I promise,”

he muttered, voice low, looking like a sad puppy.