8 Ways to Say “I Love You”: 3/8
It makes no sense that his tie is suffocating him, because in reality he wears them all the time and yet never before has he felt so close to choking while wearing one. His hand is on the knot, constantly loosening and tightening as he clears his throat.
She's across from him in a black dress she might be comfortable in if they were anywhere else. She's shifting in her seat, uncomfortable in the room lit largely by candles and lights dimmed lower than they have to be, the view of the city at night to her back. His gaze keeps flitting to that as their meal is brought out, and from here he can see the park where she originally tripped him, working some magic or other. He wants to smile at the memory but it feels wrong, somehow, and he doesn't know why.
"Raven," he says, then pauses. Because this is ridiculous; this isn't them. This is pretentious and weird and he can't stop wondering why people come to places with some of the worst lighting imaginable to confess important things like 'I love you' and 'I want to spend the rest of my life with you'. "We should get out of here and maybe grab some donuts from Starbucks, or something."
The smile on her face is what he hoped he'd get from what he wanted to say, but not yet. Not until they're themselves again.
