The restaurant was dimly lit, the soft hum of jazz playing in the background as the city lights flickered just outside the window. It was the kind of place Drew had picked out last-minute—something effortlessly cool, a little upscale but not pretentious.

“You keep staring,” he said, a teasing smirk playing on his lips as he leaned back in his chair, swirling the bourbon in his glass.

I blinked, caught in the act. “Am not.”

Drew raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so you just admire everyone at dinner like they’re a work of art?”

I rolled my eyes, but the heat rising to my cheeks gave me away. “I was just thinking,” I admitted, picking at the condensation on my glass. “This is kind of surreal.”

He tilted his head, curious. “What is?”

I shrugged. “You. Me. Here. Dating.”

Drew chuckled, setting his drink down and leaning in. “You say it like I’m some unattainable celebrity or something.”

I gave him a look. “Drew, you are literally a celebrity.”

He grinned. “Yeah, but I’m still just a guy who gets excited over chicken nuggets and forgets where he puts his keys.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “That is true.”

Reaching across the table, he took my hand in his, his thumb brushing lightly over my knuckles. “For what it’s worth,” he said, his voice softer now, more serious, “this feels kind of surreal for me too.”