The restaurant James picked is small, dimly lit, with candles stuck in old wine bottles and awful classical music playing so softly it feels like a secret. We’re tucked into a corner booth meant for two, but the three of us barely fit, shoulders brushing, knees knocking under the table, elbows clancking together. I’m in the middle again. It’s becoming a recurring theme. Daniel’s hand rests on my left thigh, possessive but gentle, thumb tracing slow circles through the fabric of my dress. James has my right hand under the table, fingers laced with mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I feel anchored between them, dizzy with it. Like they're both a drug I can't stop taking. The waiter takes our orders without blinking: three steaks, rare, a bottle of red wine, and extra fries because James insists we need something 'to soak up the tension'. When he leaves, Daniel exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours. “So,” he says, voice low. “First official date as… whatever the hell we are,” James smirks. “A throuple, three idiots who couldn’t keep their hands off each other after a fistfight.” Daniel snorts. “Romantic.” “I’m very romantic,” James says, awfully confident, “I ordered you fries.” I laugh, surprising myself. It’s the first time all day it hasn’t felt forced. Daniel turns to me, eyes softer now in the candlelight. “How are you holding up, Kat?” I swallow. “Terrified, happy. Waiting for the other fight to drop.” James squeezes my hand. “There’s no fight to be dropped, unless there is, then we’ll sort it together.”