Liam suggested the restaurant like it was the most ordinary thing in the world: "There's a place I like a few blocks from the office. Quiet. Food's honest. No fuss." He made it sound like he was offering a practical after-work meal, nothing more. Emma, who had spent the last week rehearsing boundaries like a second language, almost refused out of instinct. Then she remembered the way he'd looked at her after the pitch—calm, as if her competence did something to steady him—and something in her answered yes.
They met at six-thirty; the city had that indecisive hour when the daylight was soft enough to flatter faces and the air smelled faintly of ovens. The restaurant was a narrow place with exposed brick and a few candles set in jars—the sort of neighborhood spot that dressed its modesty up as character. Liam arrived first, standing like he'd been made to wait by the reservation system. He wore a wool coat that fit without effort and a scarf wrapped once around his neck. He looked, in the warm lamplight, like he belonged in a film Emma hadn't expected to watch.
"You look tired," he said when she slid into the seat opposite him.
"You too," she replied. "Apparently fame is exhausting." She smiled, but the laugh was a small thing—professional deflection.
They ordered simply—two small plates to share, wine by the glass. Conversation opened on the surface: the pitch's aftermath, the man who'd lingered near the exit, the logistics of the proposed pilot. Liam's tone was precise, the way he described possibilities without pinning them down. Emma felt the familiar hum of a strategist at work and appreciated how easily they could talk about frameworks instead of feelings. It felt safe.
Then, halfway through a bite of roasted cauliflower, Liam set his fork down and asked, "Do you ever worry you'll be seen as taking advantage—if you work with someone you've…known socially?"
Emma caught the hesitation like a misstep. It was a careful, adult question. She understood its implication: the world would always translate proximity into motive. "All the time," she said honestly. "Especially in our industry. Lines are blurry. People assume it's easier to sell yourself than a product."
He nodded. "I don't want you to feel compromised."
"I don't," she said, then added, because she had to be precise about her own rules, "I also don't want my decisions attributed to the warmth of a dinner conversation."
The sentence landed with a small gravity. Liam's eyes flickered—not because he disagreed, but because he was calibrating how he wanted to act within the limit she'd drawn. "Understood," he said. "I've been thinking about how to make sure your work is credited fairly. Visibility, as we talked about. I mean it."
She watched the way he said it. It read like sincerity, and maybe that was all either of them could offer in a world that rewarded narrative more than nuance.
Later, in a lull between courses, a server with a gentle manner brought a birthday candle from the kitchen and a small plate for a couple at the next table. The woman—laughing, in a loud, untroubled way—grabbed her partner's hand and kissed the top of his head. The movement was ordinary and sharp, precisely the kind of scene that could either comfort Emma or set a small ache under her ribs. Liam watched it too, but he did not reach for her hand. Not yet. The restraint felt like both respect and carefulness; Emma recognized the distinction, and she liked him for it, and also she felt the old itch of wanting someone to break protocol in her favor—just a little.
Conversation drifted, slack and honest. They talked about siblings—his sister again, hers back home—about holidays that didn't go according to plan, about the small domestic rituals that made life feel like a net rather than a precipice. At one point Liam admitted, "I signed my first lease the week my father retired. I thought stability would be a cure. It wasn't."
Emma laughed, thinking of her own apartment with its deliberate clutter and the cat that had claimed a corner of the couch. "Stability is a comfortable trap," she said. "You get cozy, then you wonder if you built a life you didn't choose."
He watched her with interest. "What would you change if you could," he asked.
She hesitated. The question was not small—what part of a life would a person reconfigure if they had the machinery to do it? For a beat she imagined different versions of herself—one who chose to backpack through a year, one who moved to a city where no one knew her work history. In the end she said, "I'd be braver about walking away sooner from what didn't fit. But I'd also keep the things that taught me how to stay."
He nodded, and she saw a soft satisfaction in his face, like someone who had been offered a mirror and found it unexpectedly generous.
Near the end of the meal, the conversation returned, as it always did in the evenings with people who hesitated to speak plainly, to the leak and its consequences. Liam's expression grew measured. "I had a call today," he said. "Investor pressure. Some of it is about optics. About what it looks like for our company to have people advising who have relationship ties. They're conservative for once."
Emma felt the familiar adrenalin spike—business pressure, translated into a worry about her professional standing. "So they'd prefer an arm's-length structure," she said.
"Right," he replied. "They asked whether any advisory relationship could be misread as influence."
She put her napkin down. "We were transparent from the start."
"We were," he agreed. "But they'll ask for clean lines if it makes the narrative easier."
The rest of the meal tasted of negotiation. They discussed disclosure language, separation of duties, ways to make credit both visible and institutional. It was practical and necessary and did what good adults did when affection and work intersected: they built guardrails.
On the walk back to the car, winter had thickened to a drizzle and the streetlights smeared the pavement into long amber ribbons. Liam stopped under a bare plane tree and looked at her as if the city had fallen away. "Emma," he said, "I want to ask you something that isn't about work, if that's okay."
She measured options. It could be a test, a sign he wanted something he'd been holding back. "Okay," she said.
"Would you like to do this again?" His voice was small, the question shaped without theatrics. "Not just for a campaign, but—dinner? A proper one? I know the rules. I'm not asking you to change yours. I just—want to see you."
Emma felt the warmth rise in her chest and the caution settle like an old habit. "That would be…nice," she said finally. "But it should be clear it isn't about access. If we do this, we keep work decisions separate. Transparency always."
He smiled. "Transparency, agreed."
They left it there—clear lines, tidy words. For a moment it felt like a pact. She wanted to believe the pact would protect the fragile bloom that curiosity had become.
She walked home letting the idea of a second dinner orbit her, distractingly bright. Halfway down the block her phone buzzed. She checked without thinking; the screen lit up with a message from an unknown number: Did you know Liam Hart was photographed with someone last night? Instagram says 'Liam & Sara'—odd for a single man, huh? Attached was a blurry screenshot of a social post—two people smiling over plates of pasta, faces indistinct.
Her pulse tightened. The message could have been nothing—an old photo, a miscaption, a friend posting casually. But the timing, the way the unknown sender phrased it, felt intentionally sharp. Someone knew the weight of rumors. Someone was testing the seam.
She considered ignoring it. Then she sent a short text to Liam: Did you post something on Instagram—"Liam & Sara"? It was a neutral question, professional in tone if not in content.
His reply came quickly: No. Not me. I don't post personal things. Who sent that?
Before she could answer, her phone vibrated again—this time it was Maya, quick and frantic in the way she only was when she thought of sabotage. Did you see that? Someone's circulating stuff about you and Liam. Be careful. Caleb joked later that people will always read dinner photos as deals.
Emma's breath left her in a small, controlled exhale. The city around her suddenly felt noisier—rumor as a live wire. She thought of the pact she and Liam had made, clear lines and transparency, of the trench she'd dug around her professional life to keep sentiment from being weaponized.
She deleted the unknown sender. She typed, deleted, and typed another message to Liam: Someone sent me a screenshot. It looks like an old post. Probably nothing—but fyi.
His reply appeared almost instantly: Thanks. I'll look into it. Don't let it change your mind. Call me if you want.
She walked the rest of the way home with her hands in her pockets, mind cataloging possible futures. A second dinner felt less like a simple plan and more like an experiment now—one with variables she couldn't control. She told herself, sternly and gently, that she had made choices before without guarantees. This was another. She had not promised herself safety, only honesty.
At her door she paused and looked back at the street—empty except for the smear of taillights and the guardian glow of the restaurant's sign. Whatever happened next would test both the pact and the seam. She unlocked her door and stepped inside, feeling the house keys cool in her palm like a small, necessary talisman.