Something about this feels unarmored.
The real reward isn’t the wine or the chef.
It’s this.
Her.
Sitting across from me, hair loose around her shoulders, dress dipping just enough when she leans in to steal my last bite.
“You’re staring,” she says.
“You’re doing that thing where you make it hard not to.”
“What thing?”
“Being you.”
The candle flickers.
Her eyes sparkle with a challenge as she licks wine from her lower lip and leans in, voice low. “You look like you’re planning something reckless.”
I set my napkin down slowly.
“I am.”
Before she can ask what I’m doing, I slide my chair back and disappear beneath the table.
“Rowan,” she breathes, alarm threading through my name. “Don’t?—”
“Quiet,” I murmur.
Her words stop immediately.
The tablecloth drops around me. Conversation hums around us, oblivious, but my attention narrows to one thing only.
Her body.
My hand settles at the back of her calf.
She inhales sharply, absorbing the contact like her body recognizes me before her mind catches up.
I move slowly, giving her every opportunity to stop this.
She doesn’t.
Her muscles tighten beneath my palm, then soften. I feel it the moment she realizes I’m serious and the exact second she decides not to fight me.
Her knees shift apart slightly.
Permission disguised as adjustment.
My fingers trace upward, paying attention to everything. The rhythm of her breathing. The faint tremor she tries to suppress.
“Rowan,” she whispers again.
Its’s a warning meant only for appearances.
“We’re celebrating,” I say quietly.
