The restaurant hums—soft lighting, clink of cutlery, low voices rolling like a tide.

He’s already at the table. Button-down. Clean shave. That easy posture that used to drive me crazy.

I cross the room. Black dress. Warm palms. Breath held. The fabric clings where I wish it skimmed.

He stands, pulls out my chair. No fuss. No comment. I angle myself in without scraping the booth.

He orders my favorite without asking. Lemon twist. Extra ice. Being remembered lands like a spotlight.

Small talk lands easy. Laughter lands easier. I laugh a beat too quick, then steady.

Eyes on mine. Then my mouth. Back to mine. I fight the urge to hide my smile with my hand.

I smooth my skirt under the table. The booth grips my hips; I shift once, then still. I plant my feet and sit taller.

He leans in, forearms braced, listening like the room is quiet and I’m the only sound in it. I lace my fingers and leave them there.

I keep waiting for the grin. The joke. The soft letdown wrapped as kindness.

But it doesn’t come.

The check arrives. He doesn’t look at it.

He rises instead—slow, like any quick move might break whatever this is. If he walks now, I won’t chase.

One hand trails the table’s edge as he rounds it, fingers skimming wood, a line of contact he doesn’t quite let go.

He stops behind me.

Heat at my back. Cedar and soap. I keep my face forward; the profile feels safer.

He lowers, close enough that a loose strand near my cheek lifts with his breath.

His palm finds the back of my chair—steady pressure, warm through the wood.

Silence folds around us. The room keeps moving. We don’t. I hold still and let him look.

His mouth is near my ear now. No performative smile. No show.

His voice is unpolished. Low enough to settle in my bones.

“I never knew how to tell you…

but I’ve always loved you.”