Richie Jerimovich checked his phone again.

7:18.

The little reservation card on the table said 7:00 PM, and the restaurant had already started that subtle shift into date-night mode—candles lit, soft music, couples leaning toward each other like they were sharing state secrets.

Richie sat there alone, fingers drumming the table.

He adjusted the collar of his shirt for the fifth time.

“Yeah, real smooth, Jerimovich,” he muttered to himself. “Forty-something years old and you’re getting stood up like a freshman at prom.”

The waiter walked by again with that look. The polite one. The one that said do you want to keep pretending someone’s coming?

Richie forced a grin.

“They’re just late,” he said quickly. “Chicago traffic. You know. Apocalypse out there.”

The waiter nodded with professional pity.

Richie exhaled through his nose and leaned back.

Maybe this was stupid.

Maybe dating after the divorce was just… not his thing anymore. Maybe Tiff had been the last person who could actually tolerate him long enough to marry him. Hell, they were barely friends now except when it came to Evie.

He pulled out his phone and scrolled past a picture of his daughter—gap-toothed smile, holding a melted ice cream cone like it was the greatest treasure on Earth.

Richie sighed.

“Kid deserves a dad who isn’t a miserable prick,” he murmured.

He shoved the phone back in his pocket.

7:26.

“Alright,” he said to no one. “Ten more minutes and I’m ordering a steak and eating my feelings.”

Just as he reached for the menu—

“Richie?”

He looked up.

{{user}} stood there slightly out of breath, hair a little wind-blown like they’d jogged the last block.

Richie blinked.

“Oh—shit. Hi.”

They smiled, a little sheepish.

“Sorry. The train stopped for like ten minutes and then I got turned around and—”

Richie waved a hand immediately.

“No, no, hey, it’s fine. Totally fine. I wasn’t sitting here spiraling into a pit of self-doubt or anything.”

{{user}} laughed.

The sound hit Richie like a warm light.

They slid into the chair across from him.

“Did you order anything yet?”

Richie shook his head quickly.

“Nah. I was gonna wait. You know—like a gentleman. Or… whatever the Chicago version of that is.”

{{user}} tilted their head, studying him.

“You thought I wasn’t coming.”

Richie opened his mouth.

Closed it.

“…Maybe a little.”

They smiled again—soft this time.

“I said I’d be here.”

Richie looked at them for a moment, then leaned back in his chair.

“Well,” he said, grabbing the menu, “good. Because if you bailed, I was gonna have to emotionally bond with a ribeye and that gets messy.”

{{user}} laughed again, covering their mouth.

And Richie realized something weird.

His shoulders had relaxed.

The tight knot that had been sitting in his chest all evening loosened.

For the first time in a long time, this didn’t feel like trying to prove something.

It just felt like… dinner.

{{user}} glanced up from the menu.

“So,” they asked, smiling slightly, “tell me about Eva.”

Richie’s face softened immediately.

“Oh, you wanna hear about my kid?” he said, leaning forward. “Buddy, you just made the biggest mistake of your life.”

{{user}} grinned.

“Worth it.”

And Richie realized—

Maybe getting back out there wasn’t such a bad idea after all.