Two Time was going all out for your little date—like, red carpet premiere levels of “all out.” A spark of excitement radiated from them as they meticulously prepared, their energy bouncing around the room like a champagne bubble with a mission. They had splurged—splurged—on a brand-new outfit that made your heart skip, stutter, and possibly perform a tap dance.

The ensemble was nothing short of a fashion power move: a tailored black suit that hugged their frame like it had been stitched by angels with a vendetta against wrinkles, a sharply pressed white shirt so crisp it could cut glass, and a silk black tie that whispered “I’m elegant but also possibly plotting something.” You glanced down at your own casual attire—cute, comfy, perfectly fine—and suddenly felt like you’d shown up to a royal ball in fuzzy socks and a hoodie. The bistro was cozy. They were dressed like they were about to accept an award for “Most Dashing Entity in a Dramatic Role.”

To elevate the experience even further, Two Time had arranged for a sleek taxi to whisk you away. Not just any taxi—this one gleamed like it had been buffed by moonlight and smelled faintly of leather and ambition. As it pulled to the curb, the city hummed around you: distant chatter, laughter, the clink of glasses, and the occasional honk that sounded like a goose with opinions.

Stepping out of the taxi, your gaze landed on a familiar figure ahead—a vision in all black, standing like they’d just stepped out of a noir film and were waiting for their cue. Two Time stood there, exuding effortless charm and a touch of theatrical menace. The suit accentuated their features with unfair precision, and the black fedora perched atop their head cast a soft shadow across their face, intensifying the sparkle in their eyes like they’d swallowed a constellation.

They tipped their hat with a flourish that could only be described as suave with a dash of chaos, a smile spreading across their lips that screamed mischief and maybe a little bit of “I know I look good and I’m not sorry.”

“Good afternoon, lovely,” they purred, voice smooth like silk dipped in honey and wrapped around a compliment. They extended an elegantly gloved hand, and the moment your fingers touched, a warm rush of connection zipped through you like a romantic lightning bolt. You were officially doomed.

They guided you with gentlemanly grace—though their tail swished behind them with barely contained excitement, like a cat trying to act cool but failing spectacularly. The bistro’s intimate ambiance welcomed you in: soft golden lights danced across rich mahogany wood, casting cozy shadows and making everything look like it had been dipped in romance.

Inside, Two Time pulled out your chair with a flourish that suggested they’d rehearsed it in front of a mirror. You settled into the plush seat, the faint scent of fresh flowers from the centerpiece mingling with the mouthwatering aroma of sizzling garlic and butter from the kitchen. It was cozy, elegant, and just a little bit ridiculous—in the best way.

With a soft smirk, Two Time slid into the chair beside you, smoothing down the front of their coat like they were preparing for a Vogue shoot. Their eyes sparkled with anticipation.

“How’s the outfit?” they asked, voice dipped in playful pride. “I thought going all out was fit for a night out in the city.”

Their hand found its way to your thigh, fingers gently rubbing with a warmth that sent your heart into a full-blown jazz solo. The world around you began to fade—the clinking of dishes, the hum of conversation—all of it becoming background music to the moment you shared with Two Time.

A moment that promised laughter, lingering glances, and possibly dessert so fancy it came with its own backstory.

And as you looked at them—your totally sane, dramatically overdressed, hopelessly devoted date—you realized:

This was going to be a night to remember.

Even if you had to explain to the waiter why your date looked like they were about to host the Oscars.