Michael looked at him irritably and said, "Could you please keep your mouth shut? We came here to eat, so please just be quiet."
Rick was about to say something when suddenly his eyes widened as if he had seen something unexpected.
"Holy—my goodness," he muttered.
"Ah, hmm… Michael, right?"
Michael heard a female voice and turned his head.
A young lady stood there, and for a moment, it was as if the world around them had gone silent. She looked like someone who had just stepped out of a dream—blonde hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders, catching the light in a way that made each strand look golden. Her eyes were bright, almost too clear, the kind that made it hard to look away once you met them.
She wore a white cropped sweater under a tan leather jacket, paired with light jeans that hugged her figure and simple sneakers that somehow made the whole look seem effortless. There was a touch of pink on her lips, and her skin carried that natural glow that didn't need makeup to look perfect.
Her expression was calm but curious, her gaze fixed on Michael as if she was trying to remember something about him.
Michael swallowed hard, realizing he had forgotten how to breathe for a second.
"Uh… yeah," he managed to say, his voice coming out weaker than he intended.
"Ah, great. My name is Vanessa Halston. I hope you've heard of me — we go to the same university, though I'm a year ahead of you."
"Va–Vanessa…"
Michael was even more shocked this time.
Because Vanessa was known as the most attractive woman at their university — famous for her high standards. If she didn't consider you worthy of her attention, she wouldn't even look your way, let alone know your name. And now, here she was, standing right in front of him, close enough to touch — and she knew his name. This was not at all ordinary.
"Well, I didn't expect to see you here," she said, her eyes scanning Michael from head to toe.
Then, with a small, graceful smile, she reached out her hand toward him.
"Nice to meet you — I just wanted to introduce myself."
Michael blinked in disbelief, his brain momentarily refusing to process what was happening. Slowly, he extended his hand, and the moment their palms met, a strange warmth spread through him.
Her hand was soft, almost weightless — but the feeling it left behind wasn't.
[System Warning: Host's heart rate spiked by 42%. Emotional state — stunned confusion mixed with mild euphoria. Possible early-stage infatuation detected.]
Michael ignored the voice echoing in his mind, though he could feel his pulse racing in his neck. For a second, it felt like the entire restaurant had gone quiet — the faint sound of the piano, the clinking of silverware, even Rick's constant mumbling — all of it faded into the background.
It was just him and her.
"Uh… nice to meet you too," he said, hoping his voice didn't sound as shaky as it felt.
Vanessa's lips curved into a faint, amused smile, as if she could tell he was struggling to keep it together. Then one of her friends, who was standing near the entrance, called her name.
She turned slightly toward them, then gave Michael a quick, polite nod.
"I'll see you around, Michael," she said softly before walking away — her confident stride making even that simple exit look cinematic.
The spell broke the instant she left.
Michael exhaled, realizing he'd been holding his breath the whole time. His hand was still half-raised on the table — fingers tingling like they'd just been shocked.
And then came Rick's voice. Loud. Disbelieving. Completely unfiltered.
"BRO! YOU—YOU JUST SHOOK HANDS WITH VANESSA HALSTON! THE Vanessa! You actually touched her!"
Heads turned from nearby tables, and Michael winced, glaring at him. "Rick, shut up."
Rick slammed both palms on the table, half-whispering, half-shouting. "No, no, don't you tell me to shut up right now — do you have any idea what just happened? The goddess of the university just walked up to you! She said your name, smiled at you, and—you—touched—her—hand!"
He stared at Michael like he had just witnessed divine intervention.
"You just got a golden luck."
Michael looked down at his hand again, still half-dazed. He flexed his fingers, remembering the warmth of her touch.
"I didn't expect that either. But stop now — we'll talk about this later; it's a public place."
Rick opened his mouth like he was about to argue, but before he could, the waitress returned — graceful as ever — balancing two steaming plates in her hands.
"Your order, gentlemen," she said, setting the dishes down with practiced precision.
The aroma hit immediately — rich, buttery, and almost unreal. The lobster glistened under the soft lights, the Wagyu steak perfectly seared, juices glinting with a reddish-gold sheen. Even Rick, still half in shock over the Vanessa situation, was momentarily silenced by the sight.
"Holy hell," he whispered, staring at his plate. "It looks… beautiful. Like, I almost feel bad for eating it."
"Don't," Michael said, taking his green tea. "Food like this is meant to be eaten, not admired."
Rick didn't need to be told twice. He picked up his knife and fork — a little clumsily — and took a bite of the Wagyu. The instant he did, his expression shifted. His eyes widened. Then, slowly, he let out a small, reverent groan.
"Oh my God. Bro… this is… this is not food. This is art. This is the Mona Lisa of beef."
Michael just smirked.
Rick took another bite, then another, like a man possessed. "I think I just forgave you for ruining my night earlier," he mumbled between mouthfuls.
Michael chuckled quietly, resting his elbow on the table. "I'll take that as a win."
Rick was still halfway through his Wagyu when he leaned back with a satisfied sigh. "Man… I swear, if I ever get rich, I'm coming here every week. Maybe even twice."
Michael smiled faintly, swirling his tea. "You'd get tired of it after the second week."
Rick laughed. "No chance. Food this good? I'd die happy."
Within moments, Rick had cleared every plate as if he hadn't eaten in days. People around them began to stare, but he didn't notice—or didn't care—while Michael felt a little embarrassed. When the plates were cleared and the dessert menu arrived, Michael politely waved it away. Rick looked tempted to order another steak, but one sharp glance from Michael stopped him cold.
A few minutes later, the check arrived—neatly tucked inside a black leather folder. Michael opened it, glanced briefly at the total, then slid his card in. After a pause, he reached into his wallet and pulled out a stack of crisp bills.
Ten of them. Each one a hundred dollars.
Rick's eyes nearly popped out. "Bro, what are you doing? That's, like… a thousand bucks! Are you tipping her or buying her?"
Michael tucked the bills under the edge of the menu and closed it carefully.
"She's been patient and polite—anyone else would've kicked us out by now. After the way we've acted, especially with you running your mouth nonstop, the least I can do is make her night a little better."
Rick blinked at him, clearly taken aback.
"Damn… I was gonna joke about you trying to impress her or something, but—" he paused, scratching the back of his neck, "—that's actually kinda cool, man."
Michael smiled faintly, almost to himself. "Let's just say… I know what it feels like to be underpaid and overworked."
The waitress returned a moment later, bowing politely as she handed back the card. "Thank you for dining with us, gentlemen. I hope everything was to your liking."
"It was perfect," Michael said with a nod.
As the two leave the table, the waitress collected the menu. She noticed the weight immediately, and when she opened it, her breath caught. Her hand trembled slightly as she stared at the stack of hundred-dollar bills.
She looked up, but Michael and Rick were already gone.