The waitress's voice cut cleanly through the hum of the restaurant. Aiden glanced at her, cataloguing the details: a pressed uniform, tired eyes, the subtle scrape of a pen across the notepad. She was neither a threat nor an opportunity. He returned his attention to Elira and observed the shift in her posture as she ordered: a slight lift of her chin and a pause of half a second before she chose her drink. He filed away the data.
He gave his own order without looking at the menu. It was routine and efficient. The waitress nodded and withdrew, folding back into the wider patterns of the room.
Aiden studied Elira in the new silence. Her eyes followed the waitress, then returned to him. He noted the calculation behind her smile, the faint tension along her fingers, the small adjustments of someone accustomed to being observed. The interruption had paused the conversation, not broken it.
He catalogued the visible variables. Table placement. Lighting. Reflective surfaces. Distance to the nearest exit. The weight and length of the cutlery. He checked the line of Elira's shoulders, the set of her jaw, the way she drew breath before speaking. Her beauty appeared deliberate and strategic. Her mask was as practised as his own.
His thoughts moved in ordered steps. Risk. Possibility. The texture of the moment. Was she dangerous? Was she an asset, a complication, or simply a variable to be controlled?
Control mattered. He inclined his head, signalling a return to conversation. "You seem familiar with this place."
Aiden held her gaze for a measured beat, then shifted fractionally in his chair. "You chose well," he said, letting his eyes travel once over the room before returning to her. "What do you usually order here?"
"Elira" did not look away. "The fish when it is fresh. The steak when it is not." A small pause. "I trust the kitchen."
He noted the confidence and its cadence. "Trust is a strong word for a restaurant."
"It is earned," she said. "Like most things."
He allowed a slight nod. "What earns it for you? Consistency, or the surprise when something exceeds expectation?"
"The second," she said. "But it must be deliberate. I do not like accidents."
He filed that. Deliberate. He leaned a fraction closer, elbows still off the table, posture controlled. "Tell me something that is not on a profile. A preference. Something ordinary. Tea or coffee?"
"Coffee in the morning," she said. "Jasmine tea at night." Her expression did not shift. "You?"
"Black coffee," he said. "No sugar. Tea only when I am unwell."
Her eyes moved once to his hands, then back to his face. "You like clean lines."
He let the silence test the statement. "I like clarity," he said. "When I can have it."
The room's light settled over her hair. He watched the fine tension at the corner of her mouth, the careful stillness of her shoulders. "Family," he said, tone even. "Do you see them often?"
"Not often," she said. She did not elaborate.
He let the absence sit between them. "By choice?"
"By necessity," she said, then softened the word with a faint smile. "Work keeps me moving."
He inclined his head as if conceding the point. "Work can be a useful reason."
"Aren't most reasons useful if you make them so?" she asked.
He examined the question rather than the words. It offered nothing and invited everything. "Sometimes useful is only a polite way of saying convenient."
Her eyes sharpened, just for a moment. "Convenience is not a sin."
"No," he said. "It is not."
He drew a slow breath, then altered the angle of approach. "When you were a child, what did you want to be?"
She considered, and the pause was real. "Loved," she said at last. "And very good at something." A beat. "You?"
"Accurate," he said. "Efficient." He let the corners of his mouth lift the smallest amount. "Then I learned accuracy does not make one popular."
"That depends on the audience," she said.
He weighed her answer, then watched the shallow rise and fall of her breath. The restaurant's hum folded back around them, neutral and constant. He noted the reflection in the window, their shapes aligned in the glass. "One more," he said. "A night that mattered more than it should have."
Her gaze did not waver. "The first time I stood under lights and the room went quiet." She held for a moment, then added, "It is not the attention. It is the stillness." She tilted her head. "You?"
"The first time a patient told the truth without asking for permission," he said. "It changed the room."
Aiden arranged his hands on the table, fingers relaxed, wrists aligned. He was aware of the distance between their glasses, of the soft shift of air as someone passed behind him, of the way her pupils adjusted and then settled. He had enough to begin to model her choices, but not enough to predict them. He found the uncertainty useful. It kept his attention fixed where it belonged.
"Thank you," he said, voice calm. "That was clear."
He let the quiet settle for a measured count, then tested a narrower angle. "You prefer control." It was not a question, although he waited as if it were.
Elira traced the rim of her glass. "I prefer intention."
He marked the distinction. Intention implied authorship. Control implied outcome. "Intention can fail," he said.
"It can," she replied. "That is part of the interest."
Aiden shifted his attention to the knife at his place setting, then back to the reflection in the window. For a moment, the two of them were only outlines in the glass, two figures at a table held in a pool of light. His thoughts ticked through prior encounters, brief and exact. A woman who cried when he pressed her on a story that did not add up. Another who lied to be liked and then lied again to be forgiven. A third who asked too many questions about his office, then watched the door more than his face. Each memory was a record rather than a feeling. Correction applied, outcome noted, path closed.
He returned fully to the room. Elira had not moved much, but the set of her shoulders had changed. Less display. More concentration. He watched the minute adjustment of her fingers, the way her gaze held when she chose not to speak.
"Most people perform without realising it," he said. "Some learn the steps. Some write the steps."
"And some teach them," she said, the corner of her mouth lifting. "Which are you?"
"Whichever is required," he said. He let the answer sit. "You change pace easily."
"I have had practice," she said. "Different rooms expect different versions."
"Which version is this?"
"The one that listens," she said. "For now."
He regarded her for a full breath. Admiration did not disturb his analysis, but he noted it as a factor. He adjusted the conversation by a few degrees. "You said stillness. What makes a room go quiet for you?"
"When something true happens," she said, without delay.
"What qualifies as true?"
"It does not require confession," she said. "It requires precision. A moment that lands exactly where it should."
He let that sit beside his own record of the patient who did not ask permission to tell the truth. The symmetry had weight. He did not name it.
The waitress returned with their drinks, approached from his left. Aiden tracked her path without turning his head. Glasses set down. A note of citrus and something floral rose from Elira's. The waitress asked if they were ready to order mains. Elira glanced once at the menu and named the fish. He chose the steak. The waitress repeated the choices, wrote them clearly, and moved away.
Ordinary routine reasserted itself. It provided a baseline. Aiden considered how easily most people were calmed by service that was predictable and polite. He looked back at Elira. She did not appear calmed. She appeared alert.
"You spoke about audience," he said. "What is yours tonight?"
"Just you," she said, then allowed a small correction. "And myself."
He inclined his head. "Accuracy noted."
She let out a breath that might have been a laugh, then did not follow it. For the first time, a small crease showed at the edge of her expression. It was not fear. It looked like focus sharpening beyond comfort. He recognised it. A limit approached.
He eased his tone. "We can choose a lighter subject."
"No," she said. "Continue." The crease vanished.
He adjusted again. "All right. A preference you rarely state. Music. Silence. Crowd noise. What do you choose when you need to think?"
"Silence," she said. "Although I will take rain if silence is unavailable. You."
"Silence," he said. "Rain when necessary."
Her mouth shaped a fuller smile, brief and exact. The similarity did not require comment.
Aiden let one more line test the boundary. "If you could remove a single habit from your life, what would it be?"
Her eyes stayed on his. The answer was almost immediate. "Apology," she said.
He weighed that. Not remorse. Not justification. The word was clean and final. "You consider it a waste."
"I consider it misused," she said. "People apologise to please others, not to be accurate."
He felt a small and unexpected alignment, like a mechanism finding a notch. He did not allow it to register on his face.
A tray passed behind him. The low murmur of the room shifted as a table near the door settled its bill. In the window, their reflections tilted with the rain on the glass. He caught his own posture and corrected it by a degree.
Her next look at him was too direct to classify as courtesy. "You weigh everything," she said. "Even the angle of your shoulders."
"Yes," he said.
"Because you have to," she said. Not a question.
"Because it is useful," he said.
Something like relief, or understanding, flickered and was gone. She sat a fraction looser. The change would have been invisible to a less trained eye. He marked it.
The waitress returned again with bread and oil, and with a short apology for the rain that had picked up outside, as if she controlled the weather. Aiden observed the apology, the deflection, and the smile. Standard script. The bread basket made a soft sound as it touched the linen. Elira thanked her and did not reach for it.
When they were alone again, Aiden shifted the centre of gravity back to himself in a controlled measure. "I was not always patient," he said. "It took effort."
"At what cost," she asked.
"Time," he said. "And the opinion of people I did not need."
She examined him, then nodded once. "That seems efficient."
The acknowledgement produced a small and measurable ease. He could feel the conversation balancing on a narrow edge between candour and performance. He kept it steady.
From the kitchen, a bell sounded softly. Plates moved. The air changed with butter and seared meat. He checked the corridor sightline by habit. Clear.
Elira rested her elbows lightly on the table. "Why did you agree to tonight?" she asked. "Truly."
He did not look away. "To see if the outline in a photo matched the person who chose it." He let a heartbeat pass. "And because I prefer to decide for myself."
She held his gaze. "And do I match?"
"You meet the specification," he said. "The variance is the point."
A breath caught at the edge of her mouth and became a smile. It was unguarded for only a moment. She looked down, then up again, posture reset.
The waitress arrived with their mains. Fish for Elira, steam rising in a clean line. Steak for him, rested properly. Aiden watched the waitress arrange the plates with care that did not tip into fussing. She named the sides, offered cracked pepper, and stepped back. The restaurant's ordinary rhythm covered them again.
Aiden lifted his glass, not to drink, but to feel the weight and balance. He set it down exactly where it had been. Across from him, Elira watched the fish flake under her fork, then looked at him instead of tasting it.
He assessed the night's path. Variables had narrowed. Unknowns remained. Interest held steady. He decided to extend the interval before any conclusion.
"After dinner," he said, tone neutral, "would you like to walk?"
Elira's reply was immediate. "Yes."
He noted the speed of the answer and the absence of qualification. He cut a piece of steak and tasted it. Salt, heat, and the clean edge of char. It was correct.
He let the conversation lapse for a measured moment, then met her eyes again. "Good."