The day starts off with promise. Simon doesn’t say much as he drives, but the glance he gives you when your fingers brush over his on the gearshift says plenty. He’s wearing that black button-up shirt you like—sleeves rolled to his elbows, tattoos peeking out just enough to distract you—and he even shaved. He told you he had a plan. “Trust me,” he’d said.

You trusted him.

The restaurant he picked is fancy. Maybe too fancy. The kind of place with a waitlist and a wine list longer than your arm. You feel a little out of place, but Simon pulls out your chair, touches your back gently, keeps giving you those quiet, fond looks. You could get used to this.

And then the chaos starts.

The waiter spills an entire glass of red wine down Simon’s shirt before you’ve even ordered. Simon doesn’t flinch, just mutters a dry, “Cheers,” while you try not to burst out laughing. Then the kitchen forgets your order—twice. By the time it arrives, your salmon is raw and his steak looks like it gave up on life. You both stare at the plates, then at each other.

Simon raises a brow. “I’d say it’s the thought that counts, but even my thoughts aren’t this undercooked.”

You lose it. A snort-laugh escapes, and soon Simon joins you, low chuckles rumbling from his chest. He tosses his napkin on the table and stands. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here before the ceiling collapses or somethin’.”

You end up at a dodgy takeaway place a few streets over. Burgers. Chips. A milkshake you make him share. He grumbles about the straw being too small but lets you hold it up for him while he drives.

You find a quiet hill just outside the city, where the sunset smears gold and orange across the sky. The back of the car is already open. Simon pulls a blanket from the boot and lays it out, then sits down with a grunt and pats the spot beside him.

“Not exactly what I planned,” he says, unwrapping his burger, “but at least the food’s hot.”