By the time you’re standing with him outside of a shuttered restaurant that definitely confirmed his booking two days ago, Reno is already on his third “minor setback”. First, the florist mixed up the order—so instead of the low-key arrangement he’d carefully chosen, he got an aggressively pink explosion of glitter roses delivered to the Turks office. Then, the expensive car he borrowed from the company stalled in the middle of traffic, forcing the two of you to hitch a ride with a taxi driver who insisted on playing breakup ballads at full volume.

And now this. There’s a handwritten sign on the door about a burst pipe and information for reservation reimbursements. Apparently they’d even called all of the guests to inform them personally, but Reno had missed it: he was too busy putting out other fires.

Exhaling very slowly, Reno turns to you with a crooked grin, trying not to let his frustration show on his face. “Cooool,” he drawls. “No, it’s fine, we can work with this.” His tone is playful, but there’s a flicker of something else when he checks your expression—nerves, maybe, or the terrifying realization that he actually cares how tonight goes. He doesn’t want to screw this up.