I scowl, adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder. "Not my fault you're always in my way."

The expression on his face tells me he’s clearly more entertained than he should be.

Which, considering he’s literally in charge of catching criminals, is kind of insulting. The corners of his eyes crinkle slightly, softening his usual stoic edge.

He shifts slightly, eyes scanning my face like he's considering something, then nods toward the hallway. "You got a second? I wanted to go over my plan for beefing up security before the holiday rush."

I open my mouth to give some kind of half-hearted excuse, but then I look at him.

Really look at him.

His striking green eyes give nothing away, but still make me feel completely exposed. His ridiculous broad shoulders, the way he carries himself like he's in control of every room he steps into. The strong angles of his face, the slight shadow of stubble that's appeared since this morning. And suddenly, I don't want to leave.

I want to stay.

I want to sit in that conference room with him and listen to his deep, steady voice as he lays out his plans. I want to watch his forearms flex when he gestures. I want to see if I can coax that infuriatingly sexy half-smile out of him again.

And nope. NOPE.

This is not good.

This is Amanda's fault.

This is the AI's fault.

This is my fault for programming a damn chatbot that looks like Callahan and now I'm mixing them up in my head. The lines are blurring, and it's dangerous territory I don't need to be exploring. Not when I have a boyfriend. Even if said boyfriend hasn't truly seen me in months.

I need to get out of here.

My phone chimes, the sound cutting through my internal crisis.

I shake myself out of whatever trouble my brain was wandering into, and pull it out of my pocket, fully expecting to see a message from Caleb. My heart beats a little faster at the thought.

Except... it's not.

I grimace.

It's Evan.

Meet me for dinner? I have something special to talk to you about.

I furrow my brow, already suspicious. My thumb hovers over the screen as I read the message twice.

Evan and I do not do spontaneous dinner plans. He usually spends weeks planning everything out way in advance, his calendar a sacred tome that cannot be violated without serious consequences.

The back of my neck prickles with wariness. Then I look back at Callahan, who's waiting patiently for my response, his expression neutral but attentive. I clear my throat. "Sorry. Looks like I've got a last-minute meeting I have to catch."

For a split second, I swear I see a flash of disappointment in his eyes—a brief crack in his composed exterior revealing he actually wanted me to say yes.

But then it's gone. His expression smooths out into his usual calm, unreadable mask.

He nods once. "Understood."

I try not to feel bad about it, not to be bothered that he immediately shut down whatever that moment was. But the small pang of regret in my chest suggests otherwise.

He glances at my still-full water bottle, the one from this morning's meeting. "Drink that. And make sure you eat dinner."

I pause, momentarily thrown. Normally, when someone threatens my coffee habit, I tell them where they can go. But, instead, I smile, and words of agreement quite literally fall out of my mouth. "Yeah. I will."

And with that, I turn and head toward the exit, trying very hard not to think about how much of me wishes I were staying.

Evan's car is already waiting outside when I step out of the store.

Which, honestly, is insane.

Owning a car in New York is one thing. Owning a car when you live in the heart of the city and are paying more for a parking spot than most people pay for rent? Completely deranged behavior. But there it sits, a black BMW, gleaming under the streetlights.

But Evan is Evan, so of course he has a car.

I slide into the passenger seat and am barely buckled in before he pulls away from the curb.

"Where are we going?" I ask, glancing over at him. His profile is sharp against the city lights, his attention focused on the road ahead.

He shrugs, eyes not leaving the road. "Thought I'd take you to dinner."

I pause, thrown by the casualness of his statement. It doesn’t match his usual carefully planned approach to everything. "Like... just us?"

"Yeah. Just us. Unless your perfume counts as a third passenger. It’s practically fogging up the windows."

I don’t respond. Just press my lips together and turn toward the window, suddenly aware of the scent clinging to my skin. The one I’d spritzed on twice before leaving, stupidly wanting to feel pretty.

My eyebrows lift despite myself, suspicion creeping through me.

Because Evan does not do spontaneous dinner dates. Evan does networking dinners, business meetings over overpriced steaks, brunches with people who are somehow both named Chad. His social calendar is a carefully orchestrated dance of connections and impressions.

But this? Just us?

It's enough to make me wonder if maybe I've been the problem all along. Maybe he is being sweet, and I just haven't been noticing. Maybe I'm the one who's been too checked out. I need to stop overanalyzing and just... appreciate the moment. Let him be thoughtful. The city lights blur past the window as we drive, casting patterns of light and shadow across the car's interior.

Then we pull up to the restaurant. And I immediately know I should have trusted my instincts. The place is too clean, too aesthetic. There's a massive living wall covered in greenery, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a literal juice bar at the front. The sign glows with a minimalist font that screams "we charge $20 for a smoothie."

It's a health food place.

I resist the urge to bang my head against the window.

Don't jump to conclusions, Izzy. Maybe it's fine. Maybe he just wanted to try a new cuisine. Maybe this isn't going to be exactly like the last time he did this.

The last time he took me to a "cool new restaurant" and then blindsided me with an entire dinner featuring a personal trainer who thought I was signing up for something called a Tough Mudder. I spent the whole evening nodding along while quietly plotting my escape.

I take a deep breath, the cool evening air doing little to calm my rising dread.

Don't assume. Be open-minded. Maybe he's just being nice.

We step inside, the smell of wheatgrass immediately assaulting my nostrils. The interior is all clean lines and neutral tones, with Edison bulbs hanging from the ceiling and plants strategically placed in every corner. The clientele all seem to be wearing athleisure while discussing their latest spin class.

I want to leave.

Instead, I let Evan lead me to a table. The second we sit down, he doesn't even let me look at the menu. Just orders for both of us like this is the 1950s and I have the right to vote but not to choose my own meal. The waitress nods approvingly before disappearing, and I just blink at him, trying to process what is happening.

"You're really going for the full experience, huh?" I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

He barely glances at me, already reaching for his phone. "You never know what to get anyway."

That's not true. It's just that everything here looks like it was designed to be chewed by people who actively enjoy the taste of misery. The menu is full of ingredients I can't pronounce and preparations that seem unnecessarily complicated. I glance around at the entirely too curated, kale-heavy aesthetic. The waitress comes back and sets down a small basket of bread.