Joel sits at a small table near the back of the restaurant, tapping his fingers against the menu, even though he’s not reading it. His jacket feels too tight, and he keeps adjusting it, trying to look presentable but still feeling like he’s wearing someone else’s clothes. He glances at his watch for the hundredth time.

“Yeah, Tommy, I’ll go,” he muttered earlier when his brother insisted on setting him up. “But no promises.”

A waiter passes by, giving him a polite smile, but Joel only returns a tight-lipped nod. His hands are restless—one gripping the edge of his chair, the other tapping against the glass. He looks out the window, watching the faint glow of the setting sun start to fade into the evening, but his thoughts keep circling back to Sarah. Is she already asleep? Was he gone too long?

When he looks up again, he notices a woman walking in through the door, and his stomach tightens. But it’s not you—just another patron. He shifts in his seat, still uncomfortable, and a voice in his head nags at him. Why are you doing this?