But I pull out her chair anyway.
“I’ll tell them to bring back the trivia host if it’ll help,” I offer.
She laughs.
It’s real and unfiltered, slipping out before she can stop it. The sound settles somewhere under my ribs and stays there longer than it should. I take a slow breath and pretend I don’t notice the way my attention locks onto her immediately, like the rest of the room has lowered its volume without permission.
She reaches for her chair.
I’m already moving.
Habit. Instinct. Control. I step behind her and slide the chair in as she sits. My hand lingers a fraction too long on the backrest. Her hair brushes my wrist, catching against my skin. I feel the contact all the way up my arm. She doesn’t react.
Neither do I.
That is the only reason it feels dangerous.
I return to my seat and adjust my napkin with unnecessary precision, giving my hands something to do while my brain tracks the way she tucks her hair behind her ear and scans the table like she’s still half convinced someone will call her out for being here.
The first course arrives before I can correct my focus.
Handmade pasta. Truffle shaved so thin it almost disappears against the plate.
She takes a bite.
The sound she makes is quiet, and every coherent thought I had dissolves on impact.
I stare at my wineglass because looking directly at her would be a mistake. My memory, apparently traitorous, supplies an inventory of every similar sound she used to make years ago.
“Oh, my gosh,” she whispers, eyes wide as she looks at the plate. “Why does this taste so good? Where has this been my whole life?”
I take a measured sip of the wine.
“You’re giving the pasta more credit than it deserves,” I say calmly. “If anyone earned that reaction tonight, it was me.”
She scoffs without looking up. “Please. I buzzed first. I answered cleanly. You just stood there, looking intense and muttering citations.”
“I corrected your citations,” I reply. “Twice.”
She finally glances at me, unimpressed. “You piggybacked.”
“I prevented public humiliation,” I say evenly. “You’re welcome.”
Her lips twitch. “You’re exhausting.”
“And yet,” I murmur, setting the glass down with deliberate care, “you keep inviting me to save you.”
“And you love it.”
I clear my throat.
She finally looks at me, eyes bright, already preparing her next argument.
And there’s the pull again. The familiarity. The part of me that never learned how to sit across from her and feel nothing.
She catches me watching.
We both pause.
