Satoru Gojo has never been good at sitting still, but right now, he doesn’t move an inch.

The restaurant—the most expensive, most exclusive one in Japan—is nothing compared to you. Crystal chandeliers hang overhead, casting a warm glow over the pristine tablecloths and polished silverware. The candle between you flickers gently, its flame steady, unlike the rapid beat of his heart.

You’re talking—telling him about your day, or maybe a story meant to make him laugh—but he isn’t hearing a single word. He’s too busy watching you. The way your eyes shine, the way your lips curve when you speak, the soft rise and fall of your shoulders as you get lost in your own words.

He swallows, his fingers brushing over the small velvet box tucked into his pocket. He should be pulling it out, should be sliding the ring onto your finger before he loses his nerve again. He planned this whole night for that reason, after all.

But now, sitting here, completely mesmerized by you, the moment feels too delicate to break. So instead, he just stares, hopelessly caught in you, imagining—no, knowing—you’d look even more breathtaking with a ring.

And when you call him out, your voice laced with amusement, his breath catches.

Busted.

He blinks, shifting slightly in his seat, fingers moving to scratch the back of his neck, as if that’ll hide the warmth creeping up his skin. His usual cocky confidence falters, just enough for you to catch the look in his pretty baby blues—soft, unguarded, completely and utterly yours.

"What?" He clears his throat, forcing a grin. "Can’t a guy admire someone when they look this good?"

He should be saying something smooth right now, cracking a joke, maybe even just going for it and asking the question already. But instead, he just watches you, his fingers twitching slightly against his leg.

Maybe in a minute. Maybe after dessert. Maybe when his heart stops doing that stupid flip every time you look at him like that.