The kitchen smelled of roast beef and fresh salad, the gentle hum of the oven a comforting backdrop. Candles flickered on the table, their soft glow catching the edges of wine glasses and polished cutlery. Becca and Luke had been unusually excited all evening, chattering nonstop about their day at school, occasionally glancing toward the front door as if expecting a visitor who could outshine even their wildest stories.
Isabelle smoothed her hair one last time and checked her watch. Robert would be here any minute. She felt a mixture of anticipation and nerves — a flutter in her stomach she hadn't felt in years. Not since the early days with Clive; and certainly not since she'd become so focused on work and her children that she'd almost forgotten what that flutter felt like.
Her mother leaned against the counter, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "You look radiant, Isabelle. I hope he appreciates the effort."
"I hope he likes it," Isabelle replied, exhaling softly. "Not just the dinner, but… us."
Her mother smiled knowingly. "Oh, he will. You've got him wrapped around your finger already. Trust me."
Becca and Luke ran down the hallway again, giggling, before Isabelle called them to the table. Plates were set, glasses filled, napkins folded. Everything looked perfect — domestic, calm. Isabelle caught her reflection in the window: poised, yes, but nervous. She was about to let someone she cared about into her real life — the unfiltered part. That was scarier than any boardroom.
The doorbell rang.
Her heart skipped. She took a deep breath and opened the door to find Robert standing there, casual yet immaculate in a crisp shirt and dark jeans, clean shaven, a small bunch of tulips in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. The flowers were slightly imperfect, their stems uneven — endearingly so.
"Evening, Isabelle." he said, voice low and warm.
"Evening," Isabelle managed, her smile trembling before it steadied. "Come in."
He stepped inside and the shift was almost tangible. The flat — all laughter and light — seemed to open up to him. He took it in quietly: the scattered children's drawings, the faint music in the background, the scent of herbs and roasted meat.
"Something smells incredible," he murmured.
"That's just my mum," Isabelle teased, and they both laughed, the tension easing. He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.
Becca and Luke appeared like small, excitable detectives, sizing him up. Robert crouched instantly, meeting their gaze at eye level.
"I hear you two are quite the artists," he said, smiling. "I might need to commission something for my office."
Becca giggled. "You have to come over for tea and biscuits first!"
Luke nodded gravely. "And bring snacks. Snacks are my favourite."
Robert laughed quietly, the sound genuine and boyish. Isabelle watched the way he looked at her children — not with politeness, but with real curiosity, real affection. It undid her a little.
Dinner flowed easily after that. Becca's stories tumbled out between bites of roast potato, and Luke declared he would one day be "as tall as Robert and even stronger." Her mother asked him questions that were half teasing, half investigative.
"So, Robert," she began, leaning forward. "What does a man like you do all day at this very important job of yours?"
Robert grinned faintly. "I make sure other people look good."
Her mother's laughter filled the room. "You must be very good at that, Isabelle hasn't looked this radiant in years."
Isabelle blushed, her eyes lowering to the table. Robert glanced at her and something tender passed between them — unspoken, steady, yet unmistakable.
Later, when the children were finally in bed and her mother had retired to her room, the flat fell into a companionable quiet. The candles had burned low, and the faint sound of traffic brushed past the windows.
They sat on the sofa, sipping tea, the air scented with vanilla and chamomile.
"I think they like you," Isabelle said softly.
Robert's eyes warmed. "I like them. They're remarkable — all three of them."
Her laugh was soft, a little shy. "That's generous."
"Not generous," he said. "True."
For a while, neither of them spoke. The clock ticked, the rain deepened. The closeness between them settled like a quiet heartbeat in the room.
At the door, when he finally turned to leave, he hesitated — just long enough for her breath to catch. "Thank you for inviting me. I really enjoyed it. Goodnight, Isabelle," he murmured, brushing a gentle kiss to her forehead.
She closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of it long after he stepped into the night.
When her phone buzzed minutes later, she didn't need to check the sender to know it was him.
Tonight was perfect. Thank you. Truly.
Her reply came just seconds later:
I'm glad you came. They liked you. I liked having you here.
She stared at the message for a moment after sending it, her pulse soft and steady, the glow of the screen reflected in her eyes.
Across the city, Robert read her words and smiled — a quiet smile that reached his eyes. For the first time in years, he felt that rare, grounding kind of joy that comes not from achievement or success, but from belonging.
He felt deep down that this was the beginning of home.
She returned to the kitchen to put away the dishes and put out the candles. She paused by the sink, her fingers resting lightly on the counter, listening to the steady patter of gentle rain against the window.
For a long moment, she just stood there, still and quiet, letting the evening replay in her mind — her mother's teasing, the children's laughter, the way Robert's presence seemed to steady the entire room. It had been years since she'd allowed herself to imagine something so simple: a dinner, a family, a man who looked at her like she was not someone holding the world together, but someone who deserved to rest in it.
She exhaled slowly, a small, contented sound escaping her. The ring of his laughter still echoed faintly in her mind. The warmth of his hand on hers. The kiss to her forehead that still lingered like a promise.
For the first time in so long, the future didn't feel like something to be feared or endured. It felt open — wide, alive and waiting.
She switched off the kitchen light and stood for a moment in the half-dark, watching the rain trace silver lines down the glass. Her reflection looked softer than it had in years — not tired, not guarded, but quietly alive.
And somewhere deep inside, she knew that whatever came next, she was ready for it.