The restaurant had a warm glow about it—strings of soft amber lights draped across the wooden beams, the faint smell of garlic and rosemary drifting from the open kitchen, glasses clinking softly in the background. The moment he sat down across from you, you realized this was going to be one of those nights. Your date leaned back in his chair, broad grin plastered across his face as if the world itself had been waiting all week just to listen to him. He hadn’t asked you much more than your name when he arrived—late, of course, by nearly fifteen minutes. No apology, no explanation, just a comment about traffic and how important people like him were always running behind. Then, without a single prompt, he launched into a monologue that had yet to pause for air. You were fairly certain if you dropped dead right there across from him, he’d keep talking, uninterrupted, maybe nodding at your lifeless body just to punctuate his own brilliance. He wasn’t ugly—tall, clean-cut, a jawline that he clearly thought did more work for him than it actually did. White button-up rolled at the sleeves, expensive watch gleaming every time he gestured dramatically at his own genius. To him, this wasn’t a date. This was an audience. You weren’t a person; you were a prop. A mirror to reflect back his greatness. You smiled tightly, nodding when appropriate, eyes flicking to the wine list just to have something else to focus on. You tried a few times to redirect, to squeeze in a question or share a detail about yourself, but every attempt was crushed under the weight of his ego. You didn’t even make it to the appetizer before you felt your patience fraying thin. Your date hadn’t touched his water. He’d ordered the most expensive whiskey on the menu, bragged about how he could tell the difference between top-shelf and “garbage” liquor with one sip, and then proceeded to down it so quickly the claim was meaningless. He leaned forward now, elbows braced on the table, lowering his voice like he was about to reveal the secrets of the universe. You pressed your lips together, holding back the sigh threatening to escape. The waiter reappeared, notepad in hand, smiling politely as if the atmosphere at the table wasn’t already suffocating.

“Are we ready to order?” he asked.

You didn’t even look at the menu. You’d been waiting for this exact opening. Quietly, you reached into your purse, pulled out a folded twenty, and set it on top of the small cocktail napkin beneath your half-empty glass. The crisp sound of the bill hitting wood cut through your date’s monologue like a blade.

“I’m good, thanks,” you told the waiter. Then, turning back to the man across from you, you let the faintest smile curl your lips. “I think I’ve seen enough tonight.”

Your date blinked, thrown for the first time all evening. “Wait—what?” He gave a laugh, forced and brittle. “Come on, don’t be like that. We were having a great time, weren’t we?”

You shook your head, slow and deliberate, your eyes locking onto his with the kind of calm that burned hotter than anger. “I was having a great time up until you started talking and didn’t stop.”

The table behind you went quiet. Even the waiter lingered a moment, eyebrows raised, before wisely retreating with your money in hand. For a heartbeat, your date just stared at you, his mouth opening and closing like he’d never once been told no. Then his face hardened, jaw tightening as red blotches crept up his neck. He leaned forward, voice dropping low, sharp with indignation.

“You think you’re better than me, do you have any idea who I am?”

You don’t answer, you begin to stand and gather your things to leave. The shift was instant. The mask slipped. His hand hit the table with a thud, silverware rattling. His smile was gone, replaced with a glower that promised you hadn’t heard the last of him. He leaned even closer, invading your space now, his voice a hiss meant only for you. And then—before you could flinch, before the heat in your chest could flare into panic—a shadow fell across the table. It was Mitch.