She’s sitting across from me in the low golden light of this tiny Italian place, and I swear I’ve forgotten how to breathe at least three times since we walked in.

The dress should be illegal. Black, soft, hugging her in ways that make my head go fuzzy, with straps that keep slipping just enough to make me want to drag her out of here before the main course. Her hair’s loose, catching the glow of the candle between us, her lips stained red from the wine she swore she wouldn’t finish but absolutely did.

Meanwhile, I’m sat here pretending I know a damn thing about the menu while she chats to the waiter in that easy way that makes people fall in love with her inside of ten seconds.

We order too much food—antipasti, pasta, pizza, even tiramisu “for later.” She teases me for butchering the pronunciation of gnocchi. I retaliate by feeding her a forkful of carbonara, pretending to be offended when she moans dramatically about how good it is.

“Think I might marry this pasta,” she says, eyes sparkling.

I raise a brow. “Bit rude. I was planning on asking first.”

She smirks, swirling her wine glass. “Better bring me pasta at the altar then.”

“Done. I’ll carry you in one arm and the spaghetti in the other.”

We laugh, too loud for the little restaurant, drawing a fond look from the waiter. She leans closer across the table, chin propped on her hand, and I swear I’d sit here forever if I could. Just watching her. Just basking.

By the time dessert comes, I’ve barely touched half of my food because I’ve been too busy looking at her. She calls me out on it, of course.

“Stop staring,” she says, cheeks warming.

“Can’t. It’s the dress’s fault,” I shoot back.

“You’re impossible.”

“Not impossible. Obsessed.”

Her laugh is softer this time, almost shy, and it makes something in my chest tighten.

And then the bill lands on the table.

Before I can reach, she snatches it up like it’s a competition. “I’m paying this time.”

I snort. “Not a chance.”

“Rory—”

“Nope. Not happening.”

She tries to glare at me, fierce and adorable all at once. “You always pay. It’s my turn.”

I lean back, folding my arms, smirking like I’ve already won. “You can call me sexist for it if you want, but my parents raised me as a gentleman. I’m not letting my girlfriend pay for dinner.”

Her eyes narrow. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious. So serious I’ll wrestle that bill out of your hands in front of everyone here if I have to.”

She clutches it tighter, daring me. “Don’t you dare.”

“Then give it here.”

There’s a standoff for three whole seconds before she sighs, dramatic, sliding it across the table with all the grace of a sore loser. “You’re insufferable.”

I grin, pulling my card out. “And yet, you keep coming back.”

She kicks me under the table. I blow her a kiss.

By the time I sign the slip, she’s shaking her head but smiling, lips twitching like she can’t quite hide how much she likes losing this particular battle.

I lean forward, catching her hand in mine. “Next time, you can pay.”

Her eyes light up, hopeful. “Really?”

I kiss her knuckles. “Really. Just… not when I’m there.”

She gasps, scandalized, and I laugh so hard I nearly knock over my wine.