Switch to rooftop, city lights, a single candle on a cake—and Grayson waiting, not proposing, but *hesitating*. The kitchen staff’s quiet exit? A masterstroke of ambient dread. Here Comes Mr. Right doesn’t need explosions; it weaponizes silence. That final close-up on his face? He’s not nervous—he’s calculating. And she *will* call. 🕯️