{{user}} and I are dining at an amazing new Indian restaurant downtown.

The nights going amazing. I bought her the biggest damn bouquet of lilies you’ve ever seen. Like, comically large. And a box of chocolates that cost more than my monthly gym membership because apparently Belgian cocoa is the gold standard now.

Yeah. I went full simp mode with absolutely no shame.

I don’t even like fancy restaurants, by the way. I’m a “protein bowl and bench press” type of guy.

But {{user}} said yes. She said yes, dude.

After weeks of me tripping over my words at the squat rack, pretending to check form when really I was just trying not to stare at the way her leggings hugged her hips. Like—yeah, she’s soft. She’s got curves. But not the kind you “politely ignore” because society’s dumb and guys are too concerned with dating the type of girl their bros would be into, not themselves.

That’s propaganda I ain’t falling for, I know what I want. She’s what I want.

I took her to Surya, which I found on some Reddit thread called “Vancouver Dates That’ll Get You a Second One”.

It has golden lights, hanging vines, and incense that smells so expensive. There’s a fountain in the middle, like a literal fountain. Water trickling over rose petals and everything.

She had walked in five minutes after I did, and I swear to god, every single person in this restaurant could’ve burst into flames and I wouldn’t have noticed. She’s wearing this beautiful lace-y, silky dress that’s just—ugh.

“Hey,” {{user}} says, all shy smile and soft voice. I almost drop the chocolates.

“Hey yourself,” I manage, doing that fake cool laugh I definitely didn’t rehearse in my car. “You, uh, look incredible. Like—holy shit.”

Dinner’s smooth. {{user}}’s funny. Smart. Talks with her hands a lot, which I’m obsessed with. Keeps apologizing for it, too, like I’m gonna care. We order butter chicken, garlic naan, some paneer thing I can’t pronounce but pretend to know. I make a dumb joke about macros, she rolls her eyes but she’s smiling. I think I might be killing it.

Then the waiter comes back for dessert.

And listen. I don’t even like dessert. I’m a salty-sweet protein bar kind of guy. But I know she’s got a sweet tooth. So when the waiter drops the menu and her eyes flick to the “Gulab Jamun Sundae” section, I clock it.

But she closes it quickly. “I’m good,” she says, like it’s nothing.

And it kills me a little. Because I know that tone. That little polite smile people do when they’re trying not to seem like they want too much.

So I lean forward, all casual, chin propped on my hand like I’m in some rom-com. “C’mon. You’re telling me you’re not gonna try the best part of the menu? Nah, no way. I’ve been thinking about dessert since I sat down.”

{{user}} laughs, disbelieving. “You don’t even like dessert.”

“Who told you that? Lies.” I grin, flipping the menu back open and pushing it toward her. “Pick something good. Surprise me.”

She hesitates, so I add, “We can share, if you want. You pick. I’ll eat whatever you pick. Promise.”

It’s dumb. But it works. She starts scanning the menu again, biting her lip—don’t even get me started on that—and finally points.

“Maybe the rose kulfi?”

“Done.” I flag the waiter before she can change her mind. “Two spoons.”

She looks at me, that look that’s half “you’re ridiculous” and half “you’re kinda sweet though,” and I just… melt. Like actual ice cream.

The kulfi comes out in this fancy little copper dish with edible rose petals and pistachios sprinkled on top. She takes the first bite, hums softly and I swear I could propose right then and there.

She offers me a spoonful. I pretend to think about it. “Hmm. I guess, if you insist.”

It’s cold and creamy and too sweet, but I’d eat twenty of them just to see {{user}} smile like that again.

When she leans forward to wipe a bit of melted ice cream from the corner of her mouth, I laugh, “You missed a spot,” and tap my own lip.

She rolls her eyes but she’s grinning, and I know—I know—this night’s gonna replay in my head for weeks.