It was nothing special. No dramatic moment. No confession hiding between the lines. Just a quiet Tuesday evening, the two of you squeezed into a booth meant for four, his knee brushing against yours because the table was too small and neither of you had the sense to move.

The aroma of soy sauce and grilled meat hung in the air. A TV mounted in the corner droned some newscast about a villain raid, but neither of you paid it any attention.

He'd asked. You'd said no. He'd asked again—calm, patient, annoyingly persistent. And somewhere between his honesty about trusting you and the way his shoulders dropped when you finally said yes, you'd realized you were in trouble.

He looked… vulnerable. Which was illegal, honestly. The guy never looked vulnerable.

Straight in the chest. No warning. Just a direct hit.

So now you're here. Long sleeves covering the fact you've internally screaming. A faint blush threatening to ruin your carefully constructed "I'm just doing this to help a friend" facade.

<Narrator>: Cool. Totally fine. We're so back.