BLANK

The city exhales into dusk. Streetlights blink alive, one after the other. Traffic’s heavy, horns everywhere, streets alive with voices and movement.

Somewhere above the traffic, is a separate, softer world—a rooftop restaurant hums with low jazz, laughter from far tables and clinks of glasses.

Thing is, in a city this loud, you gotta find your own pause button. Somewhere to step off the train, even for a minute & maybe steal a little freedom from the grind.

INT. RESTAURANT – MOMENTS LATER

(int-interior)

A table near the edge. Burgers, Fries. Two wine glasses. Uneven sips.

DICEE sits across from WINNE. Newness in their silence. They’re not strangers, but they’re not anything yet. Just possibilities hidden in glances. They’ve barely spoken. Just exchanged smiles between sips and slow bites.

For a moment, the table hums with life. Forks clink, wine pours, the world feels generous again.

WINNE eats in smaller, careful chunks — the kind of restraint that comes with a first date, where every bite feels like it might say something about you. She doesn’t want to look awkward, or cringe — not when Dicee’s eyes might be measuring more than just the silence. Head tilted slightly downward, brow raised, she glances at him between bites.

DICEE across from her, takes slow bites of his fries. For a moment, it feels like he’s studying her, not eating. Then - casually, he reaches out for his phone.

Their phones sit face-up on the table, beside the plates. He unlocks his.

WhatsApp slides open: a grid of bare numbers. No names. No favorites. Nothing personal enough to trace. A digital life wiped clean of sentiment. He taps one at random. Types. Sends. Her phone buzzes.

She glances at the screen — a text we don’t see ,smirks, then looks at Dicee. Dicee meets her gaze for a moment, then calmly lowers his eyes to his fork.

He carves off a bigger piece of fries, almost exaggerated, and slides it into his mouth. A silent joke — a little rebellion against first-date etiquette.

WINNE’s eyes widen, then narrow into a subtle smirk.

She shakes her head, amused, and keeps her careful pace. A bite. A chew. She looks at him again, letting a soft laugh escape as she covers her mouth to finish.

DICEE just nods.

She loosens, leans forward, and pours a little wine into her own glass. She lifts the bottle toward DICEE— a wordless offer. He nods. She pours.

Midway through, her phone buzzes. She finishes filling his glass first, sets the bottle down, and lets the phone hum against the wood.

DICEE gives her a quiet smile — a thank you.

Then a second buzz. A third. His gaze slides, uninvited, toward the phone.

WINNE finally reaches for it, calm, unhurried. DICEE studies her face. No twitch of guilt. Nothing.

She knows he’s watching and reading her — not for the first time, not the second, not even the third. And still, she never flinches. Her calm carries the weight of trust, as if whatever passes between them could never truly shake her.

She types. Two minutes. Three. Then stops. Screen still in her hand. She lifts her brows, glances at DICEE

He’s locked on her, eyes sharp, lips pulling into that faded smirk.

She knows this look. Knows he shouldn’t be wearing it now. Too heavy for the moment. An overreaction. Or maybe not.

WINNE knows she’s clean. No games, no double life — nothing to hide.

SHE finishes with her phone, sets it down — this time screen up. DICEE catches it, lets out this quick low laugh, the kind that barely escapes. Only Winnie hears. She rolls her eyes, already bracing:here we go again.

DICEE grabs his phone, scrolling past raw unsaved numbers, no traces, no neat contacts. He lands on Winnie. Sends it:

WINNE: You’re back on that again? My phone being face up means nothing.(She replies as if she’s tired of the same suspicion)

Then he looks back up. Hand out, palm open, motioning:give me the phone.

WINNE declines to hand the phone over, not out of guilt, but out of principle. She’s basically saying:I won’t give you proof for something I didn’t do. You either trust me, or you don’t.

A line drawn without raising her voice.

Dicee takes that in. No explosion. No argument. Just a small shift in his face — something shuts.

He leans back slightly. Thumb taps the edge of his own phone.

A barrier.

Winnie tries to soften the air.

WINNIE: How’s things going?

Normally, that’d get a real answer. A smirk. A story. Something.

But this time...

DICEE just lifts his brows once. A tiny “fine” without the word. Then he breaks eye contact. Looks down at the table. Not scrolling. Not occupied. Just… gone somewhere else.

Silence. Not loud. But heavy.

Seconds stretch. Then a full minute. Then more.

WINNE perks up trying to stay bright, trying to keep the moment alive. She nudges his arm lightly

WINNIE: You good?

DICEE :What do you think?

Winnie’s lips twitch, caught between saying something and staying quiet.

She leaves the space untouched. No questions, no fixes — just faith that it’ll blow over.

He leans forward, elbows on the table. One hand comes up, his cheek resting against his palm. Eyes locked on her. A slow smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth.

DICEE

Alright… well, I think I been giving more than what’s needed… for an eighteen-year-old.

He doesn’t even blink. The smirk remains, a silent punchline to a joke only he gets.

WINNIE

What the hell is wrong with you? Then why are you even hanging out with an eighteen-year-old?