Ethan arrived ten minutes early, though he'd never admit it. He told himself it was because the restaurant was new to him, but really, it was because his nerves had been rattling all day.
The place wasn't fancy, but it had charm: dim lighting, shelves lined with old books, the kind of spot that felt secret even in the middle of the city. Isabella chose it. Of course she had.
When she walked in, everything around her seemed to pause. The low chatter, the clink of glasses — it all faded into the background. She wore black this time, simple but elegant, with her hair loose over her shoulders. Ethan caught himself staring.
"You're early," she teased, sliding into the chair across from him.
He tried to play it cool. "Or maybe you're late."
She arched a brow. "We both know that's not true."
They ordered wine, neither of them looking at the menus too long, like food was just an excuse to sit there together.
For the first half hour, the conversation was light. She asked about his writing, and for once Ethan didn't feel embarrassed admitting how much he struggled. Somehow, with her, the truth didn't feel like failure.
"You don't look like someone who's failing," Isabella said, swirling her glass.
"Trust me," Ethan said. "I've perfected the art of looking fine while falling apart."
Her laughter was soft, but her eyes lingered on him in a way that made his chest tighten.
She told him about books she loved, art exhibits she'd visited, small pieces of her world. He found himself leaning closer, not wanting to miss a word.
"Most people bore me," she admitted at one point, sipping her wine. "They talk, but it's all noise. You… you don't feel like noise."
Ethan blinked at her, unsure what to say to that. Nobody had ever said anything like it to him before.
By the time their plates were cleared, a comfortable silence settled between them. The kind that didn't feel awkward, but heavy with something unspoken.
It was only then, when she looked down at her hands instead of at him, that her tone shifted.
"Can I tell you something?"
Isabella's voice was softer than usual, almost drowned out by the music in the restaurant. Ethan leaned closer, setting down his glass. The flicker of the candlelight made her look different — not untouchable like the first time he'd seen her, but vulnerable.
"Of course," he said.
She hesitated, tracing the rim of her wine glass with one finger. "I don't usually do this."
"Do what?"
"Sit across from strangers. Give them pieces of myself. Share things that aren't supposed to leave my head." She let out a shaky laugh, but her eyes didn't match the sound. They were glassy, tired. "But with you… it's different. I don't feel like I have to pretend."
Ethan's chest tightened. "Then don't," he said. "Don't pretend with me."
Her eyes flicked up to his, searching, as if testing whether he really meant it. And then, slowly, she let out a breath.
"I'm not happy," she whispered. "Not in my marriage, not in my house, not in my life. I smile, I play the part, I do what's expected of me… but it's like I'm disappearing a little every day."
The words hung between them, raw and dangerous.
Ethan swallowed hard. He'd known from the first moment she'd mentioned being married that something about her was complicated. But hearing it aloud — hearing the crack in her voice — it was something else entirely.
"Why are you telling me this?" he asked gently.
"Because you see me," she said simply. "You don't know how rare that is."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The restaurant noise faded, the clinking of cutlery and low hum of conversation dulling into nothing. All Ethan could hear was the thundering of his own heart.
Isabella leaned forward, her hand brushing his across the table. Just a fleeting touch, but enough to set his skin alight.
"I shouldn't be saying this," she murmured, her lips curving into a sad smile. "But I think you might be the first person in a long time who makes me feel… alive."
Ethan's throat tightened. He wanted to tell her the same. He wanted to tell her she was his spark, the reason the words had finally come back. But all he managed was a hoarse, "Isabella…"
She pulled her hand back, sitting straighter, the mask slipping back into place. "Forget I said anything," she said quickly. "Just… let me have this moment. Please."
But Ethan knew he wouldn't forget.