"Your turn," I murmur, gesturing toward his untouched glass of wine.
His fingers wrap slowly around the stem, his grip measured, deliberate. He lifts it with the kind of precision that says he's done this before, not just with wine—but with moments, with people, with control.
He brings the glass to his mouth, but he doesn't drink immediately.
Instead, he looks at me over the rim.
His eyes hold mine, unwavering.
And he waits.
Drawing out the seconds like silk between his fingers, stretching them thinner and thinner until the tension hums in the air between us.
And then—finally—he drinks.
My breath catches, just slightly.
Not that I'd let him see.
His throat flexes as he swallows, the movement subtle but commanding my attention. The muscles of his neck tighten and shift with quiet strength.
Even the way he sets the glass back down feels intentional.
Calculated.
As though this, too, is part of his strategy.
"Delicious," he says softly, almost as an afterthought.
But there's something layered in his voice—something that sounds less like agreement and more like provocation.
I place my glass down and arch a brow, coolly amused. "I didn't realize I was asking for a critique."
The corners of his mouth twitch, just faintly. But he doesn't smile.
He doesn't break the tension.
Instead, he leans back slightly in his seat, fingers idly rotating the base of his glass in a slow circle.
Unhurried. Confident.
"Still," he says smoothly, "I imagine you have a discerning palate, Miss…"
He leaves the sentence open. Hanging.
Waiting for me to give him what he wants.
My name.
But I don't.
I take another sip of my wine, slow and unbothered. "And I imagine you're used to asking for things you don't get."
His smirk deepens.
It doesn't disappear.
It sharpens.
He sets his glass down with deliberate grace.
"A woman of mystery," he says, tone light but laced with interest.
I offer a small shrug, one shoulder rising with casual indifference. "Or a woman who doesn't give out personal details to men who can't seem to mind their own table."
He chuckles, and it's low, warm, and far too easy on the ears. "Touché."
Still, he doesn't offer his name.
He doesn't close the space between us with small talk or lazy compliments.
I like that.
"Tell me," he says, eyes narrowing just slightly. "What was the news?"
I blink, caught off guard. "Sorry?"
"The news," he repeats, calmly. "The reason you smiled at your phone before the waiter came."
I tilt my head, studying him.
Bold. Observant.
Maybe a little dangerous.
"And what makes you think a woman should share anything about her life with a man she's just met in a restaurant?"
He doesn't flinch.
If anything, that unreadable smirk turns knowing—like I've said exactly what he wanted to hear.
And then—he moves.
Not away.
But up.
He rises from his booth, and immediately I register the full breadth of him.
Tall. Composed. Quietly commanding.
He doesn't make a show of it.
He doesn't need to.
He steps calmly around the narrow space between our tables, one hand brushing the back of the chair across from me.
He doesn't sit.
Not yet.
Instead, he places both hands on the chair's top rail, angling his head slightly to look at me.
Waiting.
"Sharing a meal means we're not strangers anymore."
The words aren't groundbreaking. They're almost too casual to be considered clever.
But the way he delivers them?
It's like he's already written the rest of the evening and is simply letting me catch up.
It makes me want to say no.
Just to defy him.
But the tattoo running along his forearm catches my eye.
Latin. Inked in bold, clean lines.
Fortis fortuna adiuvat.
Fortune favors the bold.
The same phrase I clung to in college when everything was stacked against me.
I shouldn't.
But something about him—the intensity, the stillness, the storm he keeps just under the surface—makes me pause.
Something about this moment feels like more than chance.
It feels like the edge of something I can't name.
And I've never been good at resisting edges.
I sigh, feigning a dramatic roll of my shoulders. "Fine."
My hand adjusts the angle of my chair with exaggerated annoyance. "If only to save me from twisting my neck every time you decide to stare."
He makes a quiet, amused sound.
Then he pulls out the chair and sinks into it, unhurried.
And just like that—everything shifts.
The table, the room, the entire energy between us.
Something invisible settles between our glasses and our plates. A hum. A current. A storm cloud laced with heat.
He knows it too—I see it in the way he reclines with effortless confidence.
He thrives on this.
The pull. The spark. The challenge.
And now?
Now he's all in.
The scent of seared meat and warm butter floats between us, thick with rosemary and smoke.
My plate arrives—a slow-braised short rib glazed with espresso-balsamic reduction, resting on a bed of truffle-swirled parsnip purée. The aroma alone makes my mouth water.
His dinner is no less extravagant—a bone-in Wagyu ribeye, dry-aged and blackened at the edges, gleaming under a brush of whiskey-infused butter. On the side, golden rosemary potatoes glisten beside a smear of charred garlic sauce.
It's an indulgent display.
But when I lift my fork and take my first bite, everything else disappears.
The flavor floods my senses—deep, rich, exquisitely layered. The meat falls apart on my tongue, smoky and sweet, balanced by the bite of the balsamic and the silk of truffle below.
A quiet sound slips past my lips before I can stop it.
A hum.
Soft. Genuine.
I close my eyes, letting the flavors settle in my mouth like poetry.
I know he's watching me.
I can feel it.
His gaze is steady, patient. Not invasive—just… invested.
But I don't care.
This meal is mine.
This moment is mine.
No man—no matter how magnetic—gets to interrupt that.
When I open my eyes, he's waiting with that same infuriating half-smirk.
"Good?" he asks, though the answer is written all over my face.
I lift my wineglass, cool and composed. "I don't waste time on things that aren't."
He smiles now—truly smiles—and it's devastating.
"You're going to be trouble, aren't you?"
And just like that, the night opens up between us like a secret door.
Conversation flows, fast and unfiltered, sharp and playful.
We trade observations like poker chips, each one upping the stakes.
He challenges me.
And I push back, matching him step for step.
Somewhere between the first glass of wine and the second, I forget to be cautious.
Somewhere between his barbed humor and that deep, velvet voice, I forget to guard myself.
At some point—without realizing it—he shifts closer.
No longer across from me.
But beside me.
Our bodies angled toward each other, our elbows almost brushing.
The bottle he ordered—a bold, overpriced choice—sits between us, half full, reflecting the candlelight like liquid amber.
"Did I invite you over here?" I ask, head tilting just enough to signal I already know the answer.
He glances at me, his mouth curling, his arm now resting along the back of the booth.
"No," he says, easy and low. "But you didn't stop me either."
He's right.
I didn't.
And I still don't want to.
Because something in me—something buried deep—doesn't want this night to end.
Something inside me is aching for more.
And that something?
Is dangerous.