When you open the door, Simon’s already there, leaning casually against the porch railing. His hands are tucked deep into the pockets of a dark, tailored coat that looks too sharp for the quiet street. His usual mask is swapped out for something more discreet—just black fabric, neat and thin, covering the lower half of his face. His eyes catch yours in the soft glow of the porch light, and for a moment, there’s a softness there you didn’t expect. Neither of you says anything at first, the silence stretching comfortably between you.

“Hey,” you say, trying to sound casual, even though you both know you’ve spent the entire week running through every possible version of this night in your head.

“Hey.” His voice is steady, calm, but there’s a subtle tension in his shoulders—just enough to make you smile.

Dinner’s nothing fancy, just the cozy little spot you picked out. You slide into a quiet booth tucked away in the corner, where the warm lighting casts gentle shadows, and the low hum of other conversations fades into background noise. Simon sits across from you, his large hands folded calmly on the table, eyes locked on you whenever you speak. He’s really listening—more than you’ve seen him do before. When you laugh at something silly you say, his eyes crinkle at the corners like he’s surprised to realize he can still make someone laugh like that.

There are these tiny moments that feel charged—the way his fingers brush yours as he hands you the wine list, the subtle press of his leg against yours beneath the table, the way his gaze lingers just a little longer when he thinks you’re not paying attention.

You don’t bring up work. Not tonight. Instead, you swap stories about childhood books, bizarre neighbors, and the worst meal you ever tried to cook. He shares a story about a dog he befriended overseas, which quickly turns into a playful debate over whether dogs dream in color.

“I think they do,” you say confidently.

“Sounds fake,” he grins. “But I’ll allow it.”

After dinner, the night air is cooler, and the streetlights glow softly, haloing the wet pavement. You walk slowly, side by side. He doesn’t say much, but his hand brushes against yours again—and this time, he laces his fingers through yours, steady and sure.

You stop in front of your door, and the world seems to hold its breath. Simon looks down at you, something warm and open shining in his eyes. His mask is still in place, but slowly, he lifts a hand and peels it away.

You lean in and kiss him.

It’s soft at first—tentative and warm—until his hand cups your cheek, pulling you closer, like he’s trying to memorize every detail of this moment.

Then—

Beep. Beep. Beep.

You pull back, startled. Simon grimaces and glances at his wrist. The screen of his smartwatch flashes: Elevated Heart Rate Detected.

He exhales sharply and silences it with a tap.

“I swear to God,” he mutters, half amused, half annoyed.