You weren’t expecting much from a blind date. Worst case, you thought, it’d be awkward small talk and a free drink. Best case, you might meet someone passably nice. What you weren’t expecting was him.

Wilbur—tall, sharp suit, curls falling just a bit too carelessly over his forehead—slides into the seat across from you at the quiet restaurant your friend picked for this setup. His smile is… polite. A little too polite, like he’s rehearsed it. His hands stay clasped together on the table, knuckles pale as if he’s holding himself back from something.

And god, he is.

Because this isn’t a date for him. It’s a job. A clean hit, an easy mark, another name on a list. He’d told himself this would be quick, efficient. No hesitation. Just a drink, maybe a laugh, then he’d do what he always does and walk away without a second thought.

But then you smile at him.

And it’s like someone’s cracked his ribs open and shoved a fist around his lungs. His plan falters instantly. Every word you say feels like a nail in the coffin of his conviction. You tell a little story about your week, and he finds himself laughing—genuinely laughing—instead of scanning the exits like he should. You lean in, eyes sparkling with curiosity, and suddenly his head is filled with don’t do it, don’t you dare do it.

So he tries. He tries so hard to find something—anything—to justify it. He studies you like a criminal profile. “Maybe she’s selfish,” he thinks. But then you stop mid-sentence to compliment the waitress on her earrings. “Okay, maybe she’s cruel.” But then you ask him if he’s nervous, voice soft, like you actually care.