The Velvet Room [Archive] - Different Paths

Lucille Corbett

04-09-2026, 01:02 AM

Lucy Corbett (https://i.ibb.co/spnhM7nz/IMG-4744.png) spent almost the entire drive pretending she was not on a date.

Which was stupid, because she was very obviously on a date.

A real one.

Not a ran into each other and somehow ended up sharing fries and unresolved history kind of thing. Not a walked home together and accidentally made eye contact for too long on Cherry Street kind of thing. Not a you can stay, but only because it’s late and I don’t hate you right now kind of thing.

An actual date.

Planned.
Intentional.
Saturday night.
Him picking her up and driving her out of town like a person who had fully meant to do that.

And somehow, that had sat with her differently all evening.

Not in a bad way.

Just enough to make her feel a little too aware of everything.

By the time she slid into the passenger seat of Cameron Tate’s truck, she had already told herself at least four times to be normal.

That did not happen.

Not internally, anyway.

Externally, she was doing a pretty decent job. She got in, shut the door, buckled her seatbelt like she had not spent the last ten minutes overthinking whether this all felt too much like high school in a way that would annoy her, and looked over at him with what she hoped passed for composure.

It probably did.

Mostly because Cameron looked just distracting enough that she was immediately too irritated to spiral properly.

Which, honestly, helped.

The inside of the truck smelled faintly like clean laundry and whatever cologne he wore now that no longer felt like it should come with a varsity jacket and poor decision-making. The dashboard glowed soft in the dark as he pulled away from her apartment, Bedford Falls shrinking around them in familiar little pockets—porch lights, old brick storefronts, the sleepy quiet of Main Street at night.

And then, gradually, the town gave way.

That was the part that made it feel more like a date than she had maybe been prepared for.

Because The Velvet Room was not just around the corner.

It wasn’t some little tucked-away place off the square where they could still technically pretend they had just ended up there.

It was a drive.

A real one.

Thirty, maybe forty minutes depending on traffic and whether Cameron got stuck behind one of those pickup trucks that drove ten under the speed limit like they were being paid by the mile.

The farther they got from Bedford Falls, the quieter it all started to feel.

Not awkward.

Just softer.

The roads opened up into longer stretches of dark Tennessee blacktop and scattered porch lights, little pockets of gas stations and roadside signs and fields disappearing into the dark beyond the headlights. The kind of drive that naturally made people settle into each other a little.

And almost immediately, it felt easy.

That was the problem with him now.

Everything with Cameron had started feeling unfairly easy.

Not because none of it mattered.
Because it did.

Because she could still feel the shape of the week behind them—him staying over twice, his arm around her in bed, the strange, quiet intimacy of waking up with him still there and not panicking about it after. The fact that she had liked it more than she was maybe fully ready to admit yet.

But none of that sat weird in the truck.

It didn’t feel loaded.

It just felt like them.

Which was somehow even more dangerous.

Lucy had started the conversation with something harmless and mildly accusatory—something about how if he made her drive thirty-five minutes into the middle of nowhere only for the place to be bad, she was going to make that his problem forever.

That had, unsurprisingly, turned into him defending the restaurant like he personally owned partial shares in it.

Which had then somehow led to an entire side conversation about whether or not any place “outside of town” automatically got points deducted for making people commit to a two-lane highway at night.

Lucy, naturally, thought yes.

“If I can’t casually leave and be home in seven minutes, I need atmosphere,” she’d said, turning toward him in her seat with all the seriousness of someone discussing public infrastructure. “And at least one good appetizer.”

That had gotten a laugh out of him immediately.

The kind that came easy and low and warm enough to make her look out the windshield for a second like the dark road had suddenly become very important.

Because it had done that thing again.

That thing where he laughed at something she said like it was genuinely funny and not just Lucy being Lucy in the flattened, familiar way people in Bedford Falls sometimes did after knowing a version of you too long.

He listened.

That was still getting to her.

By the time they were ten or fifteen minutes outside town, the conversation had already gone off the rails in the nicest way.

They’d somehow covered gas station rankings.

The deeply untrustworthy nature of decorative roadside produce stands.

Whether or not every small Tennessee town had at least one diner where the coffee tasted like punishment.

And at one point, after she’d made a completely accurate comment about how men always acted like knowing a backroad was a substitute for emotional intelligence, Cameron had laughed hard enough that she’d had to sit there and privately be annoyed by how much she liked hearing him do that.

The radio had turned into another problem.

Not because anything dramatic happened.

Because one of those older songs that every single person their age somehow knew every word to came on while they were somewhere between Bedford Falls and the kind of dark road where every mailbox started to look vaguely haunted.

And Cameron had made one dry little comment about it being a criminally strong truck karaoke song, which should have been the end of it.

Instead, Lucy had immediately said, “Absolutely not,” in the exact tone of someone who absolutely was going to participate.

And then, because God was committed to humiliating her specifically, he had looked over at her with that crooked smile and started singing the first line badly on purpose just to make her break.

Which, of course, worked.

So now she was in Cameron Tate’s truck, halfway out of Bedford Falls, on the way to a candlelit date in some moody little place outside town, singing the chorus of a stupidly familiar song under her breath like this was somehow a normal thing for her life to have become.

It was deeply embarrassing.

Also kind of perfect.

And she hated that too.

At one point, somewhere down a long dark stretch of road lined with nothing but fields and trees and the occasional lonely porch light in the distance, Lucy had laughed hard enough at one of his muttered little side comments that she’d dropped her hand to the center console without really thinking.

And then he’d reached for it.

Not dramatically.

Not in some big, obvious move that turned the whole truck into a moment.

Just easy.
Quiet.
Like it made sense.

His hand had found hers in the dark between them like it had every right to be there, and Lucy had felt the exact second her brain tried to make a thing out of it.

She did not let it.

Mostly because the feeling of his fingers sliding between hers had already done enough damage on its own.

Warm.
Steady.
Completely unfair.

She’d looked down at their hands once, just briefly, then immediately looked back out the windshield like she was above being affected by things that were objectively affecting her.

Which she was not.

Not even a little.

And the worst part was, Cameron hadn’t made it weird.

He hadn’t glanced over every six seconds like he needed to check whether it was okay.
Hadn’t turned it into a line.
Hadn’t asked if she was alright in that careful way that would’ve made her self-conscious.

He had just held her hand while he drove.

Like it was natural.
Like it belonged there.
Like they were already slipping into something neither of them needed to narrate out loud for it to count.

Lucy wasn’t sure when that had become the thing undoing her most.

Not the kissing.
Not even the nights he stayed over and she woke up with his arm heavy and warm around her waist and had to privately recover before coffee.

It was this.

The little stuff.

The part where she kept catching herself feeling comfortable in ways that would have terrified her a year ago and somehow didn’t now.

That should’ve made her more nervous than it did.

Instead, it mostly made her quieter.

Thoughtful in a way she didn’t fully know what to do with yet.

Because she was trying very hard not to let herself get swept up in the rush of being wanted again.

She knew that about herself now. Knew how easy it could be to confuse attention with safety, closeness with permanence, chemistry with something more solid than it actually was.

And she did not want to do that this time.

Did not want to build a whole cathedral around a feeling just because it was warm and pretty and looked nice in low lighting.

But the problem was—

nothing about the last week with Cameron had felt fake.

Not once.

Not in the truck.
Not in her kitchen.
Not in her bed with him half-asleep and warm and making coffee in one of her ugly mugs the next morning like he had always belonged there.
Not in the texts.
Not in the easy way he showed up.
Not in the quiet.

And that was what scared her, maybe a little.

Not because she thought it would go bad.

Because she was starting to realize it might actually be good.

Which was somehow worse.

By the time they finally pulled up to The Velvet Room, Lucy had already mentally scolded herself at least twice for becoming introspective on a Saturday night in a moving vehicle.

She blamed the hand holding.

And the singing.

And the fact that Cameron had made her laugh enough on the drive over that she hadn’t spent the whole thing bracing for awkwardness even once.

The place itself sat a little outside the nearest cluster of town—tucked just far enough off the main road to feel intentional. Dark exterior. Warm amber light spilling out through the windows. The kind of place that looked like it knew exactly what it was doing.

Lucy took one look at it and immediately thought, Okay. Annoying. This is good.

Which she would not be telling him yet.

Obviously.

The second they stepped inside, the room wrapped around them in low music and candlelight and that rich, dark warmth of polished wood and expensive-looking shadows. Deep booths. Flickering little table candles. The kind of place where everyone automatically lowered their voice half a level without being asked.

It felt intimate in a way that made Lucy instantly aware of herself.

Not insecure.
Just aware.

Of the fact that this was a date-date.
That he had driven her out here.
That this was not some accidental small-town overlap they could both laugh off later if needed.

He had planned this.

And she had let him.

By the time they got seated, tucked into a candlelit little table with menus laid neatly in front of them, Lucy was doing her best to look very normal and not at all like she had already clocked how nice Cameron looked in this lighting.

Which, again, was not going well.

She picked up her menu mostly so she’d have something to do with her hands.

The candle flickered low between them, catching the edge of the glassware, the polished silverware, the dark wood of the table. Somewhere behind them, records played softly enough to feel more like atmosphere than actual music.

It was exactly the kind of place that could make a person accidentally have feelings if they weren’t careful.

Lucy looked down at the menu for a second, pretending to study it.

Then she glanced back up at him across the table, one brow lifting slightly.

“Have you ever been here before?”

Lucy kept her tone casual when she asked it.

Too casual, probably.

The kind of casual that usually meant she absolutely cared and would rather eat a napkin than admit it.

Her fingers traced idly along the edge of the menu while she looked at him across the candlelight like she had just asked a completely normal, harmless question and not one that had arrived in her head with a whole string of other, significantly less charming follow-up thoughts attached to it.

Because the problem was—

the place was good.

Like, really good.

Not in a flashy way. Not in a trying-too-hard, overdesigned way that screamed date night at every table.

It felt considered.

Dark without being gloomy. Romantic without being embarrassing about it. The kind of place you didn’t stumble into by accident if you lived in Bedford Falls and spent most of your life rotating through the same six restaurants and two bars.

Which meant Cameron had either done actual research…

or he already knew about it.

And Lucy, unfortunately, was just self-aware enough to know exactly why that thought had landed in her chest the way it had.

Not enough to stop thinking it, though.

So instead of letting any of that show on her face like a normal person with emotional self-preservation, she tipped her menu slightly and looked down at it again like she was much more interested in whether or not burrata toast belonged on every menu in America than she was in his answer.

Which was, of course, a lie.

The candlelight between them flickered softly against the dark glassware, the polished edge of his water glass, the line of his hand where it rested near the folded napkin at his place setting. Somewhere behind them, someone laughed low at another table, and the room kept moving around them in that warm, expensive little hush.

Lucy tried to look like she was just taking in the menu.

She was not.

She was listening.

And, annoyingly, very aware of herself while doing it.

Because this was new.

Not the attraction. Not the history. Not the fact that Cameron Tate could still, somehow, make her feel seventeen and twenty-four at the exact same time depending on the angle of the light and how long he looked at her.

This part was new.

The actual dating part.

The intentional part.

The part where she let herself sit across from him in a place like this and quietly wonder how much thought had gone into him choosing it.

And the worse, more irritating layer underneath that was the one she absolutely did not want to inspect too closely:

the part that wanted the answer to matter.

She hated that.

Not enough to stop feeling it, apparently, but enough to be deeply annoyed by her own brain while she adjusted the corner of her menu for no reason at all.

Lucy’s eyes dropped over the page in front of her, though she wasn’t really reading anymore.

Words blurred into each other.

Smoked old fashioned.
Espresso martini.
Flatbread.
Steak frites.
Something with rosemary.
Something with truffle that probably cost too much and would still somehow be worth it.

None of it really landed because a louder, less useful part of her was still busy orbiting the same set of thoughts with increasing irritation.

How had he found this place?

Had he driven out here before?
Had he been sitting in this exact kind of low amber light with someone else once upon a time and thought, yeah, this works?

And worse—

why did that thought bother her enough to even register?

It wasn’t like she thought Cameron had materialized at twenty-seven with no dating history and a completely blank romantic résumé waiting to be built exclusively around her.

She was not an idiot.

She had just spent half the drive over mentally congratulating herself for being evolved enough not to confuse chemistry with destiny, and now here she was in a velvet booth with a menu in her hand trying not to irrationally resent the possibility that he had maybe once known another woman existed in a forty-mile radius.

Embarrassing.

Deeply embarrassing.

Lucy shifted one of her ankles beneath the table and took a sip of water just to give herself something else to do while she got herself together.

It helped.

A little.

Mostly because it let her look up at him again without seeming too still.

And that was another issue entirely.

Because Cameron looked good here.

Annoyingly, offensively good.

Not in a polished, overly deliberate way. Just in that easy, masculine way some men had when they were slightly dressed up and sitting in low light with their sleeves pushed back enough to make a person briefly lose the ability to care about what was on the appetizer menu.

Which, frankly, felt unfair.

Lucy set her glass down carefully.

Then, because she needed to do literally anything other than sit there quietly getting in her own head like a loser, she looked back at the menu and let her mouth tip slightly.

“If this place ends up being bad after all this atmosphere,” she said lightly, her tone dry enough to hide inside, “I am going to be incredibly judgmental about it.”

That felt safer.

Food she could talk about.

Atmosphere she could joke about.

The exact shape of her curiosity about him and how he had picked this place? Absolutely not.

So she kept her eyes on the menu another second, scanning it more seriously this time just to get her brain back into the room.

The Velvet Room really was exactly what it should’ve been.

Dark wood. Deep booths. Candlelight. Old records humming softly somewhere overhead. The kind of place where every little detail felt like someone had thought about it before it got there.

That part got her.

Not in a dramatic way.

Just in the specific little way things always got her when they felt intentional.

She noticed the brass candle holder.
The texture of the menu paper.
The tiny ripple of reflected amber light across the rim of the water glass.

And, against her will, another thought slipped in—

This did feel like him now, in a strange way.

Not the high school version.

Not the loud, easy, all-surface version of Cameron Tate that had once moved through town like he had been built to belong to it.

This one.

The man who asked quieter questions now.
Who stayed.
Who held her hand for thirty-five minutes without making it feel like a test.
Who somehow found a place like this and made it feel less like a performance and more like something warm and deliberate.

That part softened her in ways she was trying very hard not to overindulge.

So instead, Lucy turned the page and found the cocktail list, which felt like a more emotionally appropriate place to direct her attention.

“Okay,” she said after a second, one brow lifting slightly as she skimmed. “I already hate that they’re making me choose between being a martini person and being predictable with red wine.”

That was better.

Normal.
Easy.
Safe enough.

And it gave her something to smile about when she finally looked back up at him again across the table, candlelight flickering low between them.

Still curious.
Still a little too aware of him.
Still trying very hard not to let her brain wander somewhere stupid and jealous and deeply unnecessary.

Which, for now, she considered growth.

Cameron Tate

04-09-2026, 08:30 AM

Cameron knew exactly what kind of question it was the second she asked it.

Not sharp enough to count as suspicious. Not light enough to be entirely casual, either.

Just Lucy enough that anybody who didn’t know her might miss it.

He didn’t.

He looked up from the menu and caught the way she kept her eyes angled down at the page a beat too long after asking, like the cocktail list had suddenly become a matter of national urgency. The little adjustment of the menu corner. The too-even tone. The deliberate casualness of it.

And because he knew her now—maybe better than he had any right to, maybe finally the way he always should have—something warm moved through him under the table.

Not because she sounded jealous. Because she cared enough for the answer to matter.

That was different.

That was new enough to get him.

So he didn’t smile too fast. Didn’t make it a thing. Didn’t tease her for asking in that careful, almost offhand way that meant she was pretending not to ask something more specific underneath it.

He just leaned back slightly in the booth, one arm resting along the seat, and answered her cleanly.

“No.”

Simple first. Let it land.

Then his mouth tipped faintly at one corner, more warmth than smugness in it.

“Never been.”

That felt important to say plainly.

He let a breath go, eyes flicking once around the room—the candlelight, the polished dark wood, the low amber glow caught in the glassware—before they came back to her.

“I asked around a little,” he admitted. “Looked up a few places. Drove out this way last weekend to make sure it didn’t turn out to be a steakhouse with mood lighting and identity issues.”

That got closer to a grin out of him, because he could hear how ridiculous it sounded and also knew she’d appreciate the research more than a big romantic reveal about it.

“I wanted somewhere that actually felt worth the drive.”

There.

That was the center of it.

Not a line. Not overplayed.

Just the truth.

His gaze stayed on her face a second longer than strictly necessary after that, and the warmth in it deepened a little—not enough to crowd her, just enough to let her feel that he understood what she’d really been asking and wasn’t going to make her regret it.

“And before you get dramatic,” he added, easy now, “no, there is not some buried trail of women in candlelit booths all over middle Tennessee I’m reusing for efficiency.”

The line came dry and low enough to keep it gentle.

Then he looked back down at the menu, buying her a little room with it because he was not cruel and because he suspected if he stared too long right then, she’d either roll her eyes at him or spontaneously combust.

Probably both.

He glanced over the cocktail list with half his attention and then said, as if they’d never gotten anywhere near treacherous emotional territory at all, “Also I think it’s important you know I’d support you in being either a martini person or a red wine person.”

A beat.

“Though one of those feels a lot more dangerous.”

His eyes lifted again, warmer now, a little amused.

“I’m not sure I trust you with a martini and a menu this serious.”

That got him back into easier territory—the kind where she could hit him with a look and tell him to mind his own business, and he could sit there privately pleased that he’d pulled the question apart without making her feel pinned under it.

He liked that version of this. The one where he could see the edges of what she wasn’t saying and still answer kindly. The one where she didn’t have to spell every feeling out for him to take it seriously.

A server drifted past another table behind them, balancing a tray of drinks that caught little glints of candlelight, and for a second Cameron just watched Lucy across the table and had the mildly disorienting thought that he could get used to this faster than was probably wise.

Not the restaurant. Not the atmosphere.

Her.

Her in a booth across from him with one brow half-lifted and a menu in her hands and a tendency to hide her curiosity under dry commentary about the appetizer situation. Her in low light looking like she was trying not to notice how intentional this all was while very obviously noticing every inch of it.

That was the thing undoing him now.

Not the big moments. The little ones.

The way she turned a page. The way she held a water glass. The way she threw him a food-related threat because it was easier than saying the place was beautiful and she knew exactly why he’d brought her here.

He dragged his thumb once along the edge of his menu and said, “For the record, if the food’s bad, I fully accept that I’ll never hear the end of it.”

A small pause.

“I’ll probably deserve it.”

That got just enough self-awareness into the room to keep it breathing.

Then his gaze slipped to the cocktail section again, and he made a quiet sound in the back of his throat.

“Espresso martini this late feels like playin’ with fire,” he said. “Which means you’re probably gonna order it.”

He looked up at her, the smile in his eyes a little more visible now.

“And red wine feels too easy. You’d hate giving the menu exactly what it wants.”

There was affection in that. Real affection. The kind that came from paying attention instead of projecting.

He wasn’t guessing at her anymore. He was reading her.

That still startled him sometimes, how much easier it had become to do that when he stopped trying to win the moment and just stayed inside it.

He set the menu down halfway, not flat on the table, just enough to free one hand, and reached for his water instead.

“You know what I think,” he said, taking a sip before setting the glass back down, “I think you like this place more than you wanna admit yet, and you’re buying yourself time by interrogating the drink list.”

His tone stayed light. No pressure. Just observant.

And maybe because it was her, maybe because the candlelight kept making everything feel a little lower and warmer than it otherwise would have, he let the next thought out too.

“I get it.”

That one came quieter.

Not because there was anything serious in the wording. Because there was something serious underneath it.

He knew what it was to want the thing to be good badly enough that you started looking for evidence before it had even arrived. Knew what it was to want the answer to matter and hate yourself a little for caring while you waited for it.

He didn’t explain any of that. Didn’t have to.

He just let the understanding sit there between them for a second and then, because he wasn’t about to let the whole table tilt into something too soft before they’d even ordered, his mouth pulled crooked again.

“But if you order the truffle thing on principle and hate it, I’m not rescuing you from your own choices.”

A beat.

“I’ll watch it happen.”

He paused, then amended, “Actually, no. I’ll let you steal some of mine while acting like you’re not.”

That got him closer to a real smile.

Because he could already see it, frankly. Lucy pretending not to want the better dish, then drifting one bite at a time toward his side of the table with complete moral certainty.

The server approached then, and Cameron lifted his menu again just enough to glance over it one last time before lowering it.

When the server asked about drinks, he ordered first without overthinking it—something with bourbon, simple and dark enough to suit the room—and then leaned back enough to give Lucy space to order whatever she wanted without feeling watched.

He watched anyway, a little.

Not visibly. Just enough to catch the shape of her deciding.

Because that was another thing he liked too much now: the small, specific ways she moved through a choice.

Nothing careless in it. Even when she was joking, she paid attention.

When the server disappeared again, the little hush of the restaurant settled back around them, and Cameron let his forearms rest on the table near the candlelight, watching the flicker catch against the curve of the glass between them.

Then he looked at her and said, “You know what I was worried about?”

Not the kind of line that demanded immediate vulnerability. More conversational than that.

“I wasn’t worried you’d hate the place.” His mouth tipped. “You’d have told me by now if you did.”

That part was easy.

“What I was worried about,” he said, “was drivin’ all the way out here and having it feel forced.”

The word sat there honestly. No flourish on it.

“Like I was trying too hard. Or like you’d spend the whole ride looking for an exit strategy.”

He smiled a little after that, softer around the edges.

“And then you started ranking gas stations and threatening to judge the infrastructure, so I figured I was probably okay.”

There it was again—that warm current under the humor.

Because he had been worried. Not about the logistics. Not about the reservation.

About her feeling boxed in. About this seeming too deliberate too fast. About the drive making it all feel like too much pressure if the mood went wrong and the miles stretched strange and awkward between them.

Instead she’d made fun of him almost immediately, sung in his truck, laughed hard enough to reach for the center console without thinking, and let him hold her hand for half the drive like it belonged there.

He wasn’t over that part. Maybe he wouldn’t be for a while.

His eyes drifted briefly to her hand where it rested near the menu, then back to her face.

“I liked the drive,” he admitted.

Simple again. Maybe too simple. Still true.

“Felt like we actually got to go somewhere.” A small pause. “Together.”

Not run into each other. Not fall into it by accident. Not let the town push them into the same orbit and pretend coincidence deserved all the credit.

This had been chosen.

He liked that.

And, if he was being honest, he liked even more that she’d let it be chosen too.

A quiet clink of glasses sounded from another table. Low music drifted through the room. The candle between them bent faintly in a breath of air and righted itself.

Cameron leaned back a fraction and let the moment settle without crowding it.

Then, because he couldn’t help himself and because the atmosphere had already done enough to earn at least a little commentary, he said, “Also, this place really is annoyingly good.”

His brows lifted.

“You can tell me. I won’t abuse the power.”

The line came warm and teasing, but the look he gave her after was softer than that.

Because he knew she’d clocked it. The room. The lighting. The fact that he’d thought about where to take her and had landed on somewhere that felt—whether either of them wanted to say it out loud yet or not—a whole lot like the version of them they were fumbling into now.

Intentional. Warm. A little dangerous because it might actually be right.

And Cameron, sitting across from her with the first real date settling around them like something both new and strangely familiar, found himself wanting only one thing for the next hour or two:

not to impress her, not to perform, not to get ahead of where they were—

just to keep making the night feel as easy as the drive had.

So he smiled, small and easy and fully his now, and said, “Pick whatever you want. I’m backing your judgment until proven otherwise.”

Lucille Corbett

04-09-2026, 09:49 AM

Lucy had been prepared to be cool about whatever answer he gave her.

That had been the plan.

Very composed.
Very adult.
Very oh, no, I was just asking because I possess normal curiosity and not because my brain betrayed me for half a second in a candlelit booth.

She had, in theory, been ready for any version of it.

A yes.
A maybe.
A “my cousin told me about it.”
A deeply irritating “I’ve driven past it before.”

Something vague enough that she’d have to sit there and pretend it didn’t matter while privately deciding she hated the shape of the evening for no fair reason.

Instead—

he just answered her.

Cleanly.

No.
Never been.

And Lucy felt the exact second something in her loosened.

Not dramatically.
Not enough that anyone else would’ve clocked it.

But she felt it.

That tiny little, embarrassing knot she had not wanted to acknowledge in the first place eased almost immediately, and with it came the even more humiliating realization that Cameron had absolutely understood what she had actually been asking.

Which should’ve mortified her.

Instead, it mostly made her warm.

Because he hadn’t made her pay for it.

That was the part that got her.

He could have.

Could’ve smiled too knowingly.
Could’ve dragged it out.
Could’ve teased her just enough to make her regret ever opening her mouth.

Old Cameron probably would have.

This one just… handled it.

Gave her the answer.
Gave her room.
And then, somehow, made her feel less stupid for caring in the first place.

Which, frankly, was deeply inconvenient for her emotional stability.

Lucy looked down at the menu again for half a second, mostly so he wouldn’t fully see the way the corner of her mouth had betrayed her before she got it under control.

But it was already too late.

Because now she was smiling.

Just a little.
But enough.

And when he got to the buried trail of women in candlelit booths all over middle Tennessee, she finally let out the laugh she’d been trying not to give him.

A soft one.

Brief.
Real.

Her shoulders loosened with it.

“Good,” she said, lifting her eyes back to his over the menu, dry but lighter now. “Because if I found out you were just running some weird regional date circuit, I’d have to become a significantly worse person.”

The line came easy, but the truth of her relief sat warm underneath it.

And she hated that he’d done that to her.

Hated, too, that it was working.

Because now that that particular, annoying little thought had been dealt with, she could actually look around properly.

Could actually let herself notice the place instead of mentally interrogating his past like a lunatic in a velvet booth.

And, unfortunately, he had been right.

It was annoyingly good.

The room had the exact kind of mood she usually made fun of in theory and fell for in practice. The lighting was low without being obnoxious about it. The candle on the table flickered softly against the dark wood between them. Somewhere behind her, glasses clinked low and warm, and the whole place carried that nice, expensive hush of people trying to act like they hadn’t all come here specifically to flirt in dim lighting.

Lucy traced her thumb absently along the edge of the menu and let herself actually look at him this time.

Really look.

He was relaxed now in a way she liked maybe a little too much—one arm stretched along the back of the booth, shoulders easy, face softened by the candlelight in a way that made him look older and gentler and somehow more himself than the version of Cameron she had once known by instinct and habit.

That still kept catching her off guard.

How much she liked this version.

How much easier it was to sit across from him now and not feel like she was bracing for something.

And maybe that was why his next answer landed the way it did too.

Because when he said he’d asked around, looked up places, driven out here last weekend to make sure it wasn’t some tragic mood-lit identity crisis—

Lucy blinked at him.

Then just stared for half a beat.

Not because it was over-the-top romantic.
Because it wasn’t.

It was better than that.

It was thoughtful in exactly the way that got under her skin.

He had checked.

Actually checked.

Not in a showy way.
Not in a look how much effort I put in way.

Just because he wanted it to be good.

Wanted it to feel worth the drive.

Wanted her to like it.

And that did something soft and almost stupid to the center of her chest that she absolutely did not appreciate.

So naturally, Lucy did the only thing she could do in the face of a man quietly making himself more attractive through logistics.

She narrowed her eyes at him slightly.

“That is,” she said, carefully, “very irritatingly considerate.”

Which was, frankly, as close to a romantic confession as he was getting out of her before appetizers.

Her cheeks felt warmer than she would’ve preferred after saying it, and she was immediately grateful for the candlelight doing half the work of disguising her.

Still, she didn’t look away this time.

That was new too.

Her guard had slipped just enough now that she could actually sit in the moment instead of trying to out-joke it before it touched her anywhere real.

And she liked that he had noticed she liked the place.
Liked even more that he hadn’t pushed too hard on it.

Just nudged.

Just enough.

Which, annoyingly, worked.

So when he called her out for interrogating the drink list to buy herself time, Lucy gave him a look over the top of the menu that was meant to be far more cutting than it actually came out.

“I am evaluating,” she said, with the solemn dignity of a woman absolutely not stalling because she had gotten emotionally perceived in a booth. “There’s a difference.”

Then, after a tiny beat, because she could not quite stop herself:

“And for the record, yes. It is annoyingly good.”

There.

He could have that.

A little.

Not too much.

She watched the small shift in his face when she admitted it, and something in her softened again before she could stop it.

Which was getting dangerous.

Then he went and made it worse.

Because when he said he’d been worried the whole thing might feel forced—too much, too deliberate, too boxed in—Lucy’s expression changed before she could quite stop it.

Not huge.

Just quieter.

Because that had been exactly the thing, hadn’t it?

The reason she’d been able to say yes in the first place.

Because he hadn’t pushed.

Hadn’t tried to sweep her into something too polished or too big before she was ready to stand inside it.

He had let it stay easy.

Let it stay theirs.

And the fact that he had been thinking about that too—that he had worried about whether she’d feel trapped or pressured or cornered by the shape of the night—landed in her in a place she wasn’t prepared for.

Not because it was dramatic.

Because it was kind.

And she was beginning to understand, in a way that kept sneaking up on her, that kindness from him hit harder than charm ever used to.

Lucy set her menu down then, not fully, just enough that she could look at him properly without hiding behind laminated cocktail choices like a coward.

Her fingers curled loosely around the edge of the table instead.

“I would’ve told you if it felt weird,” she said after a second, voice quieter now. Still Lucy. Still dry around the edges. But softer.

Not defensive.
Just true.

And then, because the honesty of that was already enough to make her feel a little exposed, she tilted her head slightly and added, “Also, for the record, ranking gas stations is a legitimate compatibility test.”

That got the air back into the room before it got too serious.

Exactly where she liked it.

She could do soft.
She just needed it to breathe.

When the server came over, Lucy ordered an espresso martini almost entirely because Cameron had called it and she refused to be manipulated by accuracy.

Which, admittedly, was not how that worked.

Still.

The second the server walked away, she gave him a look.

“You saying I was going to order this actually made me less likely to want to order it,” she informed him, as if she had not, in fact, ordered it anyway.

Then she folded one leg over the other beneath the table and glanced back down at the menu, though she wasn’t really reading anymore.

Not because she wasn’t hungry.

Because she was too aware now in a way that had softened from anxious into something else entirely.

Something warmer.
Something steadier.

And she knew it had happened the second he’d answered her without making her feel ridiculous for asking.

That was the shift.

Small.
Almost invisible.
But real.

Lucy hadn’t realized until then how much she’d still been holding a little piece of herself back tonight.

Not a lot.
Just enough.

A little caution tucked behind the jokes.
A little self-protection hidden in the dry commentary.
A little space between what she felt and what she let him see.

But now?

Now she was sitting across from him in a room she genuinely liked, thirty-five minutes outside town, candlelight between them, feeling some of that distance quietly dissolve without much effort at all.

And the scariest part was—

it felt good.

She hated how good.

So instead of saying any of that like a normal, vulnerable person, Lucy tapped the menu lightly with one finger and looked back up at him.

“Okay,” she said. “Important question.”

One brow lifted.

“If we get one thing to split and you order badly, are you emotionally prepared for me to judge you for the rest of the night?”

Her tone was lighter now.
Looser.
More herself again in the best way.

Not because the vulnerable part had vanished.

Because she trusted it enough, suddenly, not to over-defend it.

And that was new too.

Cameron Tate

04-09-2026, 05:18 PM

Cameron felt the shift in her before she said a word.

Not a huge one. Nothing dramatic.

Just that little easing he was starting to learn—the way she got looser around the edges when something had landed right. The way her voice stopped guarding itself quite so hard. The way she looked at him a fraction more directly after he answered her cleanly and didn’t make her pay for caring.

That got him more than he let show.

Especially when she called him irritatingly considerate like it was an accusation she wasn’t quite prepared to prosecute.

He’d take that.

Gladly.

So when she gave him the question about splitting something and the threat of judgment attached to it, Cameron leaned back a little in the booth and looked at her like she had just handed him a challenge he was absolutely going to enjoy.

“Prepared?” he said, one brow lifting. “Luce, I walked in here aware there was a very real chance I’d get judged for breathing wrong in candlelight.”

His mouth pulled crooked after that, warm and easy.

“I made peace with it on the drive over.”

That got the humor where it needed to be, but underneath it, he was still quietly caught on the fact that she’d set the menu down and softened instead of hiding. On the fact that she’d told him she would’ve said if it felt weird. On the espresso martini she’d ordered like she was refusing to let him be right in a way that had still ended with him being exactly right.

He liked her too much. That was becoming a practical problem.

Cameron looked down at the menu again, more seriously this time, dragging his thumb once along the edge of the page while he considered it.

“All right,” he said after a second. “If I’m staking my reputation on one shared thing, I’m not getting cute with it.”

He glanced back up at her.

“No truffle gamble. No unnecessary bravado. I’m not about to ruin a perfectly good date pretending I’m more adventurous than I am.”

The candle between them flickered, catching the grin that was starting to build at one corner of his mouth.

“I think we split the burrata.”

There was enough certainty in it that it sounded like he’d already decided and was generously allowing the process to include her.

“It’s hard to screw up, it’s the right level of dramatic for a place like this, and if they bring out really good bread, I’m gonna look smarter than I actually am.”

A beat.

“If it’s bad, though, I’ll take the hit. Publicly. You can hold it against me through dessert.”

He meant that too.

There was something about choosing one thing together—something small, ordinary, a little intimate in a way that shouldn’t have been but absolutely was—that fit the night better than he wanted to inspect too closely. It wasn’t about the appetizer. It was about the easy little teamwork of it. The assumption that there would be a “we” inside the ordering.

He liked that. A lot.

His forearms rested on the edge of the table now, menu tipped lower, body angled toward hers in that quiet, attentive way he seemed to keep falling into around her without meaning to.

“And if you want a backup option,” he added, “I’m willing to hear a case for something crispy and fried. Because if a menu like this can’t produce one excellent appetizer and one thing with crunch, then the atmosphere really is all they’ve got.”

That was enough to keep it playful.

Enough to keep the softness from closing too tightly around them.

But when he looked at her again, the warmth in his face hadn’t gone anywhere.

It had only settled deeper.

He was still caught on the fact that she was more relaxed now than when they’d first sat down. Still caught on the way she’d laughed at the regional date-circuit line, on the way her shoulders had loosened after his answer, on the way the whole table suddenly felt less like a test and more like a place they had arrived at together.

That mattered.

So Cameron let his gaze stay on her a second longer than strictly necessary and said, quieter now, “For the record, I like this version of you better.”

It came out before he could overthink it.

Not because he preferred one Lucy over another in some broad, declarative sense.

Just this version of tonight. This version of her across from him.

The one who’d stopped bracing quite so hard. The one who admitted when she liked the place. The one who threatened judgment like it was foreplay for the appetizer course.

His mouth tipped slightly, softening what could have landed too hard.

“The one who’s actually lettin’ herself be here.”

There.

That was the truth of it.

He didn’t pile anything on after that. Didn’t reach for a bigger statement just because the opening was there. He had learned enough by now to let a good line breathe instead of smothering it with one more.

So he just picked up his water, took a sip, and added with more warmth than innocence, “Though I do reserve the right to argue my case if you start grading the burrata like a district court judge.”

A small pause.

“And if you hate my choice, I’ll recover. Barely.”

The smile he gave her then was fully his—easy, a little flirty, a little unfair in the candlelight.

Because he was still himself. Still Cameron. Still a man who liked to make her laugh and liked even more when she looked back at him like she was trying not to.

“And if it goes well,” he said, lowering his glass again, “I’m taking full credit. Unreasonably too.”

That got the air back in the room where he wanted it—light enough to breathe, warm enough to keep.

Then he tipped the menu a little toward her, nodding once.

“So. Burrata as the official recommendation. Crispy-fried thing as contingency plan.” His brows lifted. “Tell me if I’m about to embarrass myself.”

Lucille Corbett

04-09-2026, 10:19 PM

Lucy didn’t answer right away.

Not because she didn’t have one.

Because she felt it—what he’d said—land a little deeper than she wanted to react to too quickly.

I like this version of you better.

It should’ve made her pull back a little.

That was usually her instinct when something got too close to the center too fast—shift it, joke over it, make it smaller so it didn’t sit there looking at her like it expected to be taken seriously.

But this time—

she didn’t.

Maybe because of the drive.
Maybe because of the way he’d answered her earlier.
Maybe because she was a little tired of pretending she didn’t feel things exactly when she did.

Or maybe just because it was him, sitting across from her like that, not asking for anything extra after saying it.

Just letting it exist.

Lucy’s eyes stayed on him for a second longer than she meant them to, something quieter in them now—less guarded, less sharp around the edges.

Then, slowly, she reached across the table.

It wasn’t a big move.

Not dramatic.
Not announced.

Just her hand slipping over the space between them, fingers brushing lightly against his before curling into his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like she hadn’t even thought about it.

Her thumb pressed once, absentmindedly, against the side of his hand as she looked at him.

“I think…” she started, voice softer now, less performative than it had been all night, “you made a good call.”

A tiny beat.

“The burrata.”

But her hand didn’t move.

Didn’t pull back.

If anything, her fingers settled a little more comfortably between his, like she’d made the decision and wasn’t in a rush to undo it.

Her mouth tipped just slightly after that, something warmer sneaking in at the edges.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” she added, because she couldn’t not say something like that. “This is a very limited endorsement.”

Still—

she was smiling.

And there was something in the way she looked at him now that hadn’t been there when they first sat down.

Something easier.

Something that had let go just enough to feel real.

Her thumb brushed lightly against his hand again, quieter this time, almost absentminded, like she’d forgotten she was doing it.

“Crispy thing can be the backup,” she said, glancing briefly back at the menu before her eyes flicked up to his again. “In case you ruin my life with soft cheese.”

A pause.

Then, softer—barely there, but not hidden either:

“I like this version too.”

She didn’t elaborate.

Didn’t need to.

Just let it sit there between them, warm and unguarded in a way she usually would’ve immediately covered with a joke.

And then—because she was still Lucy—

her nose scrunched just slightly as she added, “But if the bread’s bad, I’m filing a formal complaint.”

Her fingers squeezed his once, quick and light, before she finally let go just enough to pull her hand back to her side of the table.

Not far.

Just… back.

Like she wasn’t retreating.

Just resetting.

Still there.

Lucy didn’t rush to fill the space after she let go of his hand.

She let it breathe for a second.

Let the warmth of it linger in her fingers, in the way her shoulders had loosened without her permission, in the quiet realization that she hadn’t immediately covered anything up.

That was new.

A little suspicious, honestly.

Her eyes dropped back to the menu, but the focus wasn’t really there anymore. She skimmed a line, then another, the candlelight catching on the edge of the page while her mouth slowly curved into something she didn’t quite bother hiding this time.

Then she glanced back up at him.

And there it was—that look.

The one that meant she was about to be a problem on purpose.

“So,” she said lightly, tilting her head just a little as she tapped the edge of the menu with her finger, “since you’re clearly feeling confident after your very successful appetizer leadership moment…”

A beat.

Her grin slipped in, soft but unmistakable.

“Which entrée are we sharing?”

She said it like a challenge.

Like she already knew exactly what she was doing by phrasing it that way—like it wasn’t really about the food anymore so much as the fact that she’d just casually extended the we a little further without flinching.

Her eyes stayed on his, amused, a little warmer now.

“Careful,” she added, voice quieter but still threaded with that dry humor of hers. “This is where people start revealing their true character.”

She flipped the menu closed halfway, resting her chin lightly in her hand as she watched him.

“Are you a steak person?” she asked, narrowing her eyes just slightly like she was assessing him in real time. “Pasta? Something unnecessarily complicated with a description that takes up half the page?”

A tiny pause.

Then, with that same soft grin still sitting there—

“Or do you play it safe after the burrata gamble and pretend this was all part of a well-balanced plan?”

Cameron Tate

04-10-2026, 01:24 AM

The second her hand slid across the table and into his, Cameron forgot what the menu said.

Not in a dramatic, lights-out sort of way.

Just enough.

Enough that the neat little columns of entrées and side notes and wine pairings stopped being real words for a second and became background to the feel of her fingers curling around his like it was nothing. Like it had simply occurred to her body before the rest of her could get weird about it.

That got him.

Badly.

He looked at her hand in his for one beat too long, then back up at her face and caught the softness still there—the version of Lucy that had stopped bracing, just for a minute, and was letting him see what landed. The burrata excuse helped, sure, but not much. Not when her thumb moved against his hand like that. Not when she quietly gave him back the same thing he’d just given her and somehow made it sound even more dangerous by not making a production out of it.

He didn’t answer right away.

Couldn’t, for half a second.

Because she had just told him she liked this version too, and then held his hand across a candlelit table in a place he’d driven out of town to make sure was good enough for her, and Cameron was only human.

His mouth pulled into that warm, slightly wrecked smile she kept getting out of him now, and his fingers closed around hers before she slipped away again.

“Yeah?” he said softly.

Not because he needed her to repeat it. Just because the word came out on its own.

By the time she pulled her hand back, the feeling of it was still sitting in his palm, and he had to resist the urge to immediately reach across and take it again just to check whether it had happened the way it felt like it had.

Then she said we.

Casually. Like it wasn’t a loaded weapon. Like it was just the most natural thing in the world to widen the circle that little bit farther and sit there watching him over candlelight while it landed.

Cameron’s brows lifted before he could help it.

Not high. Just enough.

And the grin that followed came slower than before, a little more dangerous around the edges because it was impossible not to hear what she’d done there.

He leaned back a fraction in the booth, menu still in one hand, and looked at her like he was trying very hard not to enjoy himself too much.

“That,” he said, voice low and amused, “felt real deliberate.”

He didn’t say the we out loud. Didn’t need to.

The look on his face said he’d caught it cleanly.

But he didn’t push. Didn’t make her pay for it. He’d learned something, after all.

Instead he dropped his eyes to the menu again like he was taking the challenge seriously, though the warmth in him hadn’t gone anywhere.

“Okay,” he said, more thoughtful now. “If we’re sharing an entrée, I think we go steak.”

His thumb traced once along the edge of the menu.

“Not because I’m boring. Because if a place like this can’t get a good steak right, then all the candlelight and brass and dramatic menu paper in the world won’t save it.”

He glanced back up at her.

“And if it’s good, it buys me a lot of credibility I’m gonna need later.”

That part came with a grin.

Then he looked back at the page and considered it another second, because he knew better than to stop there.

“Pasta’s tempting,” he admitted. “But pasta’s a trust exercise. You order pasta in a place like this, you’re asking the kitchen to have depth. Steak just requires discipline.”

A beat.

“And anything with a five-line description and a foam on top is for people who enjoy disappointment as a hobby.”

That landed exactly where he meant it to: dry, easy, a little flirty by way of confidence instead of performance.

He set the menu down fully this time and tipped his head at hers.

“So my official answer is steak.” His mouth curved. “Medium rare, obviously, unless you’re secretly one of those people who wants to fight me on principle.”

He already knew she probably wasn’t. That wasn’t the point.

The point was getting her to look at him like that again—warm and amused and just a little too aware of him.

“And if you judge me for choosing predictably after the burrata,” he added, “I will remind the court that you’re the one who said we first, so now I’m trying to be responsible.”

That one he let sit there with a little more heat beneath it.

Not enough to make the whole table blush. Just enough.

Because that was what tonight felt like now—little lines dropped softly between them, each one landing closer than the last, neither of them pretending not to notice anymore.

He leaned forward slightly, forearms resting near the candlelight, and looked at her with that same open, easy attentiveness he’d had all evening.

“Though,” he said, “if you want my real answer?”

A beat.

“I think we order the steak to share and one side we absolutely don’t need because it’ll sound good and we’ll pretend we’re being reasonable about it.”

His mouth tipped again, softer now.

“Then if the steak’s great, I look thoughtful. If it’s bad, I blame the atmosphere and start over with dessert.”

That got a low laugh out of him, because he knew she’d hear exactly what he meant in it: he was perfectly willing to recover in real time if it meant keeping the night where it was.

He glanced once toward the bar, where the first drinks were being set on a tray, then back at her.

“And for the record,” he added, “the steak answer has nothing to do with me trying to seem rugged or decisive or any other nonsense you might pin on me.”

One brow lifted.

“It’s because I know you’d judge me harder for ordering something that arrived stacked vertically.”

There.

Fully honest.

He could practically feel the case she’d build against any entrée trying too hard to be architecture.

The server reappeared then with the drinks, and Cameron shifted just enough to make room while the glasses were set down between them—her espresso martini dark and glossy in the candlelight, his bourbon drink catching amber low around the ice.

Once the server asked about appetizers and entrées, Cameron glanced at Lucy first, just to give her room to veto him if she wanted to.

When she didn’t immediately do it, something in him warmed all over again.

So he ordered the burrata for the table and, after a brief look back at her face to make sure he wasn’t overstepping, gave the steak order too, plus a side that sounded indulgent enough to count as bad influence but not bad judgment.

When the server moved away, he picked up his drink and looked at her over the rim.

“That’s it,” he said. “Now we wait and see if I’ve ruined everything.”

The line came light.

But the way he was looking at her wasn’t.

There was too much ease in it now. Too much fondness. Too much of that quiet awareness that the evening had tipped into something warmer than either of them had maybe meant to admit out loud.

He took a sip, set the glass back down, and let his fingers tap once against the stem.

“You know what I like about this?” he said after a second.

Not heavy. Just curious.

“The part where you don’t look like you’re trying to leave anymore.”

He said it gently, carefully, with enough softness around the edges to keep it from sounding like a callout.

Because it wasn’t one.

It was an observation. And maybe a thank you, tucked inside it.

His eyes stayed on hers.

“You looked ready to bolt when you got in my truck,” he added, smiling a little now. “You hid it real well. But I know what that looks like.”

He didn’t say I used to cause it. Didn’t need to.

They both knew enough history for silence to carry part of the sentence.

“But right now?” His gaze flicked once to the menu, then back to her face. “Right now you just look like yourself.”

That was the compliment, really. Bigger than telling her she looked pretty in candlelight. Truer too.

And because he’d already gone halfway tender on her and knew better than to leave it sitting there too naked, he added, “A dangerous version of yourself, maybe. Since apparently I’m one bad entrée away from character assassination.”

His grin came back with that.

Warm. A little flirty. Enough to keep the room breathing.

Then he lifted his glass a fraction toward hers.

“To the burrata,” he said. “May it justify the confidence.”

And after the smallest pause, because he couldn’t quite resist giving her one more thing to trip over if she wanted it—

“And to we,” he added, softer, the corner of his mouth pulling.

Just enough to let her know he’d heard it. Just enough to let it stay.

Lucille Corbett

04-11-2026, 10:34 AM

Lucy didn’t interrupt him.

That was the first difference.

A week ago—hell, even earlier tonight—she would’ve cut in somewhere between that felt real deliberate and the steak lecture just to keep control of it. Keep it lighter. Keep him from getting too comfortable reading her that clearly.

But she didn’t.

She let him talk.

Watched him, actually—chin tilted slightly, fingers resting against the stem of her glass, eyes steady on his in a way that wasn’t defensive anymore. Just… paying attention.

And yeah—she felt it when he clocked the we.

Of course he did.

Her mouth twitched at the corner when he called it deliberate, like she was deciding whether to deny it or lean into it.

She didn’t deny it.

“Maybe,” she said lightly, but there was no real argument behind it. Just a soft, almost playful acknowledgment that yeah—he wasn’t wrong.

Then she let him keep going.

The steak explanation should’ve made her roll her eyes.

It almost did.

But there was something about the way he said it—no performance, no trying too hard—that made it land differently.

Her gaze dropped briefly to the menu, then back up to him as he talked about discipline versus depth, and she let out the smallest breath through her nose, amused.

“You practiced that,” she murmured, not accusing—just quietly impressed.

Because it sounded like him thinking, not like a line.

The foam comment got her.

Her lips pressed together, then she huffed out a soft laugh, shaking her head just slightly.

“Okay, that’s fair,” she said. “If anything arrives stacked vertically, I’m leaving. Immediately.”

A beat.

“I won’t even pretend to stay for dessert.”

But there was no edge to it.

Just warmth.

Just ease.

When he said medium rare, her brows lifted a fraction, and she nodded once—small, approving.

“Good,” she said. “You would’ve lost me at anything else.”

Not entirely true.

But he didn’t need to know that.

Her fingers tapped lightly against the table as he kept going, the we slipping into his reasoning now like it belonged there, and she felt that again—that quiet, steady shift in her chest.

He wasn’t making it heavy.

He was just… using it.

Like it made sense.

That was worse.

Better.

Both.

Lucy leaned back slightly in her seat, one shoulder angling into the booth as she watched him, her expression softer than she probably realized.

“You’re doing a lot of work to justify this steak,” she said, but it came out more fond than teasing. “It better be incredible.”

When he laid out the full plan—steak, unnecessary side, contingency dessert—her mouth curved slowly, something genuinely pleased slipping through.

“That’s actually a very solid system,” she admitted.

A tiny pause.

“Suspiciously well thought out.”

Her eyes held his for a second longer after that, like she was clocking the fact that he’d built a whole structure around keeping the night good.

Not impressive.

Not perfect.

Just… good.

That didn’t go unnoticed.

When the server came, she didn’t interrupt him.

Didn’t correct him.

Just watched him order—quiet, attentive, letting him take the lead in a way she normally wouldn’t without thinking twice about it.

And when he glanced at her for confirmation—

she gave him a small nod.

Easy.

Like she trusted it.

That was new too.

Once the server left, she picked up her drink, listening as he said he might’ve ruined everything, and her eyes flicked up at him over the rim.

“You’re dramatic,” she said softly.

But she smiled when she said it.

Because he wasn’t really.

He was just aware.

Then—

you don’t look like you’re trying to leave anymore.

That one landed.

She didn’t look away this time.

Didn’t deflect it immediately.

Her fingers tightened slightly around her glass before she set it down, her posture shifting just a little—less leaned back, more… present.

He saw that.

Of course he did.

Lucy exhaled quietly, her gaze staying on his.

“I wasn’t planning my exit,” she said, honest but calm. “I just like knowing I have one.”

A beat.

Her mouth softened slightly.

“You didn’t make me feel like I needed it.”

There it was.

Clean.

No extra decoration.

Her eyes dropped briefly to the candle, then lifted back to him.

“And I wasn’t hiding it that well,” she added, a little dry, but not defensive.

Just… accepting that he’d seen her.

That part mattered more than she was going to say out loud.

When he said she looked like herself now, something in her expression shifted again—quieter, a little more vulnerable than she usually let sit out in the open.

She didn’t joke over it right away.

Didn’t brush it off.

Her lips pressed together slightly, then eased.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I feel like myself.”

That was as close as she got to saying thank you.

Then—because she needed to breathe again—

she tilted her head slightly, one brow lifting.

“Dangerous version?” she echoed, a hint of her usual edge slipping back in. “You’re handling it pretty well so far.”

Her tone was lighter, but her eyes stayed warm.

When he lifted his glass, she followed a second later, her fingers steady this time.

“To the burrata,” she said, softer.

Then she paused—just for a second—

before finishing it.

“And to… we.”

This time, she didn’t rush it.

Didn’t hide behind it.

Just let it exist.

Her gaze stayed on his for a second longer after, something quiet and certain settling behind it.

Not rushed.

Not overwhelming.

Just… there.

Then she leaned back slightly, the softness easing into something more like her again, her mouth curving at the corner.

“If this steak’s bad,” she added, “I’m absolutely holding it against you.”

A beat.

“But I’ll still eat it.”

Another small pause, her eyes flicking back to his.

“And your side.”

Lucy didn’t mean to.

Not in any planned, this is the moment kind of way.

It just… happened.

Maybe it was the way he said it—and to we—like it wasn’t fragile.
Maybe it was the way he’d answered her all night—steady, not pushing, not making her feel like she had to perform around him.

Or maybe it was just the quiet way everything had settled between them without either of them forcing it there.

Whatever it was—

she felt it before she thought about it.

Her fingers loosened from around her glass, her gaze still on his, softer now—less guarded than she usually allowed in places like this.

And then she leaned forward.

Just slightly.

Enough that the table wasn’t a barrier anymore.

Enough that the candlelight shifted between them.

Lucy didn’t say anything first.

Didn’t warn him.

Her hand came up lightly—brief, barely there—fingers brushing his wrist where it rested near the edge of the table, like she needed something to anchor herself for half a second.

Then she closed the rest of the space.

The kiss was quick.

Soft.

More of a press than anything—warm, intentional, and just long enough to mean something before she pulled back.

Not rushed.

Not apologetic.

Just… careful.

Her lips brushed his once, and then she leaned back into her seat again, like she hadn’t just shifted the entire night forward by an inch.

But she had.

And she knew it.

Her cheeks warmed a little almost immediately, her mouth pressing together for a second like she was catching herself before it turned into something bigger than she was ready to handle in the middle of a restaurant.

Still—

she didn’t look away.

Her eyes found his again, a little brighter now, a little softer, something quiet sitting underneath the usual composure.

“That,” she said lightly, voice just a touch softer than before, “was… not related to the burrata.”

A tiny pause.

Then, with the faintest hint of a smile—

“Just so we’re clear.”

Cameron Tate

04-11-2026, 11:47 AM

For one clean, disorienting second after she kissed him, Cameron forgot there was a table between them.

Forgot the candle. Forgot the menu. Forgot the low music and the expensive little hush of the room and the fact that there were other people sitting ten feet away pretending not to notice each other flirt in public.

All of it.

Because Lucy had leaned across the table and kissed him.

Quick. Soft. Deliberate.

And then sat back down like she hadn’t just knocked the whole night half a step sideways in the best possible way.

Cameron stared at her for a beat longer than was probably safe.

Not blankly. Not because he had nothing to say.

Because he had too many things to say, and about half of them would have made her roll her eyes at him for the rest of the meal.

The other half might’ve gotten them thrown out before the burrata arrived.

So instead he let the look on his face say most of it for him.

Warm. Caught off guard in exactly the right way. A little too pleased. A little too gone.

His thumb rubbed once, absentmindedly, against the stem of his glass where his hand still rested near the candlelight, like he needed something physical to do with the hit that little kiss had just landed straight in the center of him.

Then his mouth pulled into a slow grin.

“Good,” he said, voice low and easy, but roughened a little around the edges in a way he knew she’d hear if she wanted to. “I’d hate to give the burrata that much credit.”

That got the humor where it needed to be.

But he didn’t look away.

Didn’t rush to soften the rest of it too fast.

Because she had leaned in. She had kissed him. She had said we like she meant it and then looked him dead in the face afterward and let him sit there with it.

He was not about to pretend that hadn’t done something to him.

So Cameron leaned forward just a fraction, enough to feel a little closer without crowding her, and let his eyes stay on hers when he said, quieter now, “Crystal clear.”

The words landed like an answer to more than just the kiss. To her toast. To the hand across the table. To the entire soft, dangerous shape of the night they were making between them without either one trying too hard to name it.

And because he was still himself—still warm, still a little playful, still not above enjoying the fact that she’d just kissed him in a restaurant because apparently she liked him too much to help herself—he added, “Though for the record, if that’s how you’re handling a good appetizer decision, I’m gonna need the entrée to stay in its lane.”

That got a quiet laugh out of him, low and loose and entirely too happy.

The server arrived with the burrata before he could say anything dumber, which was probably for the best.

Cameron sat back enough to give the plate room when it was set between them, but his attention kept snagging on her anyway—the faint warmth still in her cheeks, the brightness in her eyes, the fact that she had not once tried to walk the moment back after doing it.

That part got him.

Maybe more than the kiss itself.

She hadn’t apologized. Hadn’t laughed it off. Hadn’t acted like it was an accident.

She had just done it.

He liked that maybe too much.

Once the server stepped away again, Cameron looked down at the burrata, then back up at her with a small lift of his brows.

“Well,” he said, “now we find out if I’m a genius or if you’re about to spend the rest of the night questioning my judgment.”

He reached for the serving spoon, then paused just long enough to glance at her.

“Unless you’re one of those people with a very intense system for first bites.”

The line came warm and easy, but there was something sweeter under it too—something domestic in the smallest way, the kind of thing that probably should not have felt intimate and somehow did.

Without waiting for a real answer, Cameron plated some for her first.

Not a giant, performative gesture. Just matter-of-fact. Instinctive.

Bread next. Then his portion.

Like of course he would.

And when he handed her plate across the candlelit table, the grin at the edge of his mouth made it clear he knew exactly how that might look and was choosing not to care.

“There,” he said. “Evidence of character.”

He picked up his own fork, but before he took a bite, he looked at her again and the confidence in him softened into something more openly fond.

“You know what I like about you?” he asked.

Not heavy. Not a trap. Just a line he had apparently decided to risk.

He gave her exactly one second to suspect him before answering it himself.

“You commit.”

His mouth tipped.

“To judging me. To roadside produce stands. To gas station rankings.” He lifted his fork slightly toward the burrata between them. “To stealing a kiss in a dark restaurant and then acting like I’m supposed to recover with dignity.”

That got him closer to a grin again.

“Real strong follow-through.”

Then he finally took a bite.

And, annoyingly, it was excellent.

Cameron shut his eyes for half a second like a man receiving extremely confirming news from the universe, then looked back at her with quiet triumph.

“Oh, that’s good.”

Not smug. Just deeply relieved.

He leaned one forearm on the table and lowered his voice like he was sharing a criminally useful piece of information.

“That is very good.”

The candlelight caught in his glass when he reached for it, and he took a slow sip of bourbon, still watching her over the rim in that easy, infuriating way of his. Not staring. Just very obviously enjoying the fact that she was here with him, eating from a shared plate, looking like she might actually let him have this one.

Then, because the kiss was still sitting in his system like a bright little fuse and he wasn’t nearly noble enough not to touch it again, he said, “You know that thing you just did?”

A beat.

“The across-the-table ambush?”

His brows lifted slightly.

“That felt unfair.”

There was nothing wounded in it. Only warmth. Only the faintest flirtatious challenge.

He set his glass down and let his fingers tap once against the stem.

“Not complaining,” he added. “Just trying to understand the rules of engagement.”

His eyes flicked to her mouth once, then back up to her face.

“Because if random restaurant kisses are in play now, I need to adjust my expectations as a man.”

That line came out with just enough confidence to feel like him, but still threaded through with that same open boyishness she kept knocking loose from him—like he wasn’t trying to dominate the room or turn the kiss into leverage. He was just delighted by it. A little stunned. Completely into it.

And that was what made it land.

He picked up another piece of bread and tore it absently while he watched her take her first real bite, too curious not to.

The second her face changed—however slightly—his mouth curved.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Thought so.”

Not cocky. More pleased on her behalf than his.

Because he had wanted the place to be good for her. Wanted the food to justify the drive. Wanted the whole thing to feel worth it.

And sitting there across from her now, with the candle low between them and that lingering charge from her kiss still warming the edges of his attention, Cameron had the sudden, vivid sense that the night had crossed some invisible line without either of them needing to force it there.

Not into anything scary. Just further in.

He found himself leaning toward that instead of away from it.

“So,” he said after another bite, settling back enough to look comfortable but not distant, “I’ve survived the appetizer round.”

A small pause.

“Your standards appear devastating but not impossible.”

Then his smile shifted again—slower this time, softer under the humor.

“And you kissed me in public.”

That one he let sit plainly between them.

Not to embarrass her. Because it was still getting to him.

He shook his head a little, half to himself now.

“I was already havin’ a hard time acting normal across this table, by the way. That did not help.”

There was no shame in the admission. No overdone bravado either.

Just the truth, spoken by a man who looked deeply, thoroughly pleased to be exactly where he was.

He took another sip of his drink, then set it down and looked at her again with that same bright, romantic steadiness.

“Good thing I came prepared for judgment,” he said. “I was clearly not prepared for rewards.”

And if the grin that followed was a little too handsome for its own good in the candlelight—

well.

That sounded like her problem now.

Lucille Corbett

04-11-2026, 07:31 PM

Lucy didn’t look away when he did that.

That slow, caught look.
That second where he forgot himself just enough for it to show.

She saw it.

And for once—

she didn’t rush to cover what it did to her.

Her fingers curled lightly around her fork, but she wasn’t eating yet. She was watching him—taking in the way he recovered, the way he didn’t really recover, the way everything he said sat somewhere between teasing and something softer he wasn’t trying too hard to hide.

Good. I’d hate to give the burrata that much credit.

Her mouth curved immediately, small and pleased.

“Yeah,” she murmured, a little softer than she meant to. “Wouldn’t want to set unrealistic expectations for dairy.”

There was a faint warmth still sitting in her cheeks, but she didn’t shrink from it. Didn’t pretend the kiss hadn’t just happened.

If anything, she looked… a little more settled in her seat now.

Like she’d crossed something and decided to stay there.

When he leaned in just slightly—crystal clear—her eyes held his, steady, and she gave the smallest nod.

“Good,” she said, quieter now. “That was the goal.”

No joke layered over it.

Just honest.

The entrée comment made her huff out a soft laugh, her shoulders loosening as she finally picked up her glass.

“Relax,” she said, tilting her head just a little. “I’m not gonna start a pattern. You’re safe.”

A beat.

“Probably.”

Her eyes flicked up at him with that small, teasing glint again—lighter now, easier.

When the burrata arrived, Lucy leaned back just enough to make room, watching him without saying anything as he reached for the spoon.

And then—

he plated her first.

That got her.

Not in a big, visible way.

But her expression shifted—just slightly. Softer. A little more caught off guard than she’d been expecting to be over something so… simple.

She didn’t comment on it.

Just watched him for half a second too long before taking the plate when he handed it to her.

“Wow,” she said lightly, but there was something warmer under it now. “Look at you. Very impressive.”

Her fingers brushed his briefly when she took the plate, and she didn’t pull away too fast.

“Strong character evidence,” she added, quieter, almost like she meant it more than the joke suggested.

Then she finally took a bite.

And—

yeah.

Her face gave her away.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

Her brows lifted slightly, and she paused mid-chew like she needed to process it properly before reacting.

“That’s… really good,” she admitted, glancing back up at him with something close to approval. “Annoyingly good.”

A small pause.

“You’re not allowed to get used to that.”

But she was smiling.

When he said he liked that she committed, her fork hovered for a second before she set it down, her expression softening again.

“That’s a very generous way of saying I’m stubborn,” she said, quiet but amused.

Her eyes flicked up to his.

“But I’ll take it.”

There was something almost shy in it—quick, subtle, gone as fast as it came—but it was there.

Then—

the across-the-table ambush.

Lucy let out a soft breath through her nose, her lips pressing together like she was trying not to smile too much.

“Unfair?” she echoed, brows lifting slightly.

Her head tilted just a little as she looked at him, that same quiet warmth still sitting behind her eyes.

“You seemed okay with it.”

A beat.

“Very okay, actually.”

Her tone stayed light, but there was a softness under it that matched his—like she wasn’t pushing him away from the moment, just… standing in it with him.

When he said he needed to understand the rules of engagement, her mouth curved again, slower this time.

“Rules?” she repeated.

She leaned forward just slightly—not as far as before, just enough to close the space a little—and lowered her voice a fraction.

“I don’t think there are rules.”

A tiny pause.

“I think you’re just supposed to keep up.”

That landed soft, not sharp.

More invitation than challenge.

When he called it unfair again—random restaurant kisses—her eyes flicked to his mouth for half a second before lifting back up, something warmer settling in her expression.

“They’re not random,” she said quietly.

Not defensive.

Just… correcting him.

Then she reached for another piece of bread, slower this time, like she wasn’t in any rush to fill the space.

His oh, that’s good made her smile again, softer, more relaxed now.

“Mm,” she nodded, taking another bite. “You might survive this after all.”

When he leaned in and said it again—very good—she let out a quiet laugh.

“Okay, don’t oversell it,” she said. “You’re getting dangerously close to smug.”

But she didn’t sound like she minded.

Not even a little.

When he brought the kiss back up again—you kissed me in public—Lucy’s expression shifted again, something softer slipping in around the edges.

She didn’t deflect it this time.

Didn’t joke over it immediately.

Her fingers traced lightly along the edge of her plate, thoughtful.

“I know,” she said quietly.

A small beat.

“I wanted to.”

Simple.

No explanation.

No apology.

When he admitted he was already having a hard time acting normal, she smiled again—smaller this time, a little more private.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I noticed.”

Her eyes held his for a second longer after that, something steady in them now.

Something that had stopped pretending this was casual.

And then—

because she couldn’t help it—

because something about him still looked a little too surprised every time she reached for him—

her head tilted just slightly, her expression shifting into something curious.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

A beat.

Her voice stayed soft.

“Why do you always act like it’s the first time?”

Her fingers tapped lightly against the table, thoughtful.

“Like… every time I touch you. Or kiss you. Or even just hold your hand.”

Her eyes searched his a little more directly now—not guarded, not sharp. Just genuinely wondering.

“You look at me like it surprises you,” she added quietly.

A small pause.

“Why?”

Cameron Tate

04-11-2026, 09:45 PM

For a second, Cameron just looked at her.

Not because he didn’t understand the question.

Because he did.

Too well, maybe.

It sat between them in the candlelight with all the soft little truths the night had been collecting—her hand in his earlier in the truck, the kiss across the table, the way she’d said I wanted to like it was the simplest thing in the world and still managed to knock the breath out of him with it.

And now this.

Why did he keep looking at her like that?

Why did he keep acting like every touch surprised him?

His mouth curved first, but only faintly. Not enough to dodge it. Just enough to steady himself before he answered.

Because she deserved the real one.

He set his fork down and leaned back a fraction in the booth, not pulling away from her, just giving the words a little room to land right.

“Because I can’t help it,” he said softly.

There was no performance in it. No trying to make it prettier than it was.

His eyes stayed on hers.

“I spent a real long time thinking I’d never get another chance with you.”

That changed the air between them a little.

Not heavier. Just truer.

Cameron let out a slow breath through his nose and glanced down at his glass for half a second before looking back at her. The candle caught the edge of it, the rim flashing warm amber, and when he spoke again his voice had gone lower.

“So I think…” He smiled, but it was gentler now. Less teasing. “I think my brain knows what’s happening, but the rest of me still hasn’t completely caught up.”

That got closer to it.

Closer, but not all the way.

Because the truth was more specific than that. More embarrassing too.

He rubbed his thumb once against the stem of his drink, then gave up on pretending he didn’t know exactly what she meant and said it cleaner.

“You touch me, and some part of me still goes, really?” His mouth pulled a little crooked. “Like I should probably check and make sure I didn’t imagine it.”

There.

That got it out where it belonged.

Not as insecurity, exactly. Not as self-pity.

Just astonishment. The honest kind. The kind that hadn’t worn off yet because she kept doing things—small things, quiet things, deliberate things—that felt like gifts he had no business expecting.

He held her gaze and let the warmth come back into his expression after that, softening the line of it.

“Doesn’t mean I’m confused,” he added. “Or hesitant.”

A tiny beat.

“It just means I’m still a little wrecked by the fact that you let me.”

That one came out before he could sand it down, and Cameron knew the second he said it that he didn’t want to take it back.

Because it was true.

Not just the kissing. Not just the hand-holding. Not just the way she’d leaned across a candlelit table and kissed him like she’d already decided it was allowed.

All of it.

Her letting him take her out. Her letting him pick the place. Her letting him see the softer, steadier parts of her without making him bleed for every inch of it. Her letting this be easy sometimes.

That still got him.

It probably would for a while.

His smile shifted then, a little more like himself again. Warmer. A little flirty. Enough to keep the answer from getting too solemn.

“And, to be fair,” he said, “you’re not exactly making it easy to play it cool.”

He lifted one shoulder.

“You keep doing things like kissing me in restaurants and saying we like it’s not gonna do permanent damage.”

The line landed easier, but his eyes stayed too honest for it to be pure joke.

Because underneath it was the other truth too: he liked that she kept catching him off guard. Liked that he couldn’t quite smooth himself out around her anymore. Liked that she got to see the part of him that forgot to be composed when she reached for him.

He leaned forward a little then, forearms settling near the candlelight, body angling toward her in that loose, easy way that came naturally now.

“And before you ask,” he added, “no, I’m not planning on getting used to it.”

His mouth tipped.

“Seems disrespectful.”

That got the humor back where he wanted it—right there on the edge of something tender instead of replacing it.

The server passed behind them with another table’s drinks, and the room shifted in little sounds around them—low voices, the clink of glass, a soft laugh from somewhere deeper in the restaurant—but Cameron barely noticed.

He was still looking at her.

At the way she watched him when she was really listening. At the quiet curiosity still in her face. At the softness she’d stopped trying so hard to hide all night.

He reached for his glass, then changed his mind and set his hand back down instead.

“Honestly?” he said.

Another little breath.

“I think part of me got real good at imagining the rest of my life without this.”

He didn’t smile this time. Didn’t need to.

“Without you wanting me back. Without you reaching for me first. Without…” His gaze dropped briefly to the table between them, then back up. “Any of it.”

There was no self-pity in it. Just history. Just the shape of years he had spent living around an absence he’d made.

“So now when you do?” His expression softened again. “I feel it every time.”

That was the heart of it.

Not because he was fragile. Not because he was unsure of her.

Because it mattered.

Because after wanting something impossible for long enough, the real thing didn’t slide into your hands quietly. It hit. Even when it came in a small way. Maybe especially then.

Her fingers brushing his wrist. Her hand finding his in the truck. Her mouth on his in the middle of dinner. Those things weren’t routine to him.

He didn’t want them to be.

Cameron smiled a little after that, slower now, and the warmth came back into his face fully.

“Also,” he said, “you’ve got really bad timing if your goal is me acting normal.”

One brow lifted.

“I’m already sitting here trying not to be too happy about the fact that you just kissed me across a table, and then you ask me something like that?” He shook his head a little, fondness all through it. “That’s entrapment.”

That got him back where he wanted them—still close to the truth, but breathing again.

The burrata was still between them, the candle still low, her drink catching the light when she moved it slightly, and Cameron had the sudden, disarming thought that this might be what dating her actually felt like now.

Not just attraction. Not just history. Not just that electric charge when she touched him.

This too.

The questions that mattered. The answers he didn’t have to dodge. The way she looked at him like she actually wanted to know.

It made him feel older in the best way. Steadier. Like he didn’t have to win the night to deserve to be in it.

He reached for the bread then, tore off another piece, and leaned back just enough to pass it onto her plate without turning it into a thing.

“Eat,” he said, softer now, a smile tucked into the word. “Before you start asking me anything else that makes me accidentally tell the truth in public.”

That part was a joke.

Mostly.

He picked up his own fork again, but before he took another bite, his eyes found hers one more time and held.

“Just so we’re clear, though,” he said quietly, “I like that you asked.”

The warmth in his voice had gone lower. More intimate. Not enough to turn the whole booth into a moment no one could recover from, but enough that she’d hear what sat under it.

He liked that she noticed. Liked that she cared enough to ask why. Liked that she wasn’t treating his reactions like something to laugh off.

And maybe most of all, he liked that she seemed to want the answer because she was trying to understand him, not because she was testing him.

That got him worse than he wanted to admit.

His mouth curved again, easier this time.

“But now I get one back,” he said. “Later.”

A tiny pause.

“Not because I’m keepin’ score. Because I’m curious.”

That sounded more like him again—light on its feet, but still real.

Then he finally took another bite, chewed, and shook his head like the food itself had reminded him of something.

“You know what’s really gonna get me, though?” he said after swallowing. “You called me dramatic, but you’re the one out here kissin’ me over burrata and then acting like I’m the surprising one.”

His grin came back full now, soft around the edges and entirely too pleased.

“Unbelievable behavior.”

And if the look he gave her after that was a little too openly affectionate for a man trying to keep the date from tipping too far into dangerous territory too soon—

well.

That, at least, he wasn’t even pretending to help.

Lucille Corbett

04-11-2026, 10:27 PM

Lucy didn’t interrupt him.

That was the first difference.

A week ago—hell, even a few nights ago—she probably would’ve softened it, cut in with a joke, nudged him off anything that started to feel too close to something real.

But she didn’t.

She just… sat there.

Watched him.

Listened.

Her fingers stayed loosely wrapped around the stem of her glass, her thumb tracing a small, absent circle as he talked—eyes steady on his face, softer than she meant for them to be.

Because I can’t help it.

That got her first.

Not in a way she reacted to outwardly—no sharp inhale, no immediate deflection.

Just something quiet in her expression shifting.

Settling.

When he said he’d thought he wouldn’t get another chance with her, her gaze dropped for a second—just a second—down to the table, to the candlelight flickering against the edge of her plate, like she needed somewhere softer to put that before looking back at him again.

She didn’t say you didn’t.

She didn’t rush to fix it.

She just let him have it.

And then he kept going, and—

really?

That made her lips press together, a small smile threatening at the corner like she didn’t quite know what to do with how… honest that was.

“You don’t have to check,” she murmured softly, almost instinctively.

Her voice was gentle—no edge, no teasing.

“I’m pretty consistent.”

It was light, but there was something underneath it too.

Something reassuring.

When he said it wrecked him that she let him—

that one she felt.

It showed.

Not big. Not dramatic.

Just a flicker in her eyes, a warmth that hadn’t been there before settling in a little deeper.

Her shoulders eased, just slightly.

“You’re being dramatic again,” she said quietly, but it didn’t land like a dismissal this time.

It landed like… fondness.

A small beat.

“But I get it.”

That part was softer.

Real.

Because she did.

She understood what it meant to build a life around something missing. To get used to not having it. To make peace with that version.

And then have it show back up and feel—

louder than it should.

Her gaze held his for a second longer after that.

Then flicked briefly to his hand on the table.

Then back to his face.

When he said he wasn’t planning on getting used to it, her mouth curved—slow, warm, a little shy at the edges.

“Good,” she said. “Don’t.”

A beat.

“I don’t think I want you to.”

That slipped out quieter than the rest of it.

But she didn’t take it back.

When he admitted he’d imagined a life without her—

that part made her go still.

Not tense.

Just… still.

Her fingers stilled against her glass.

Her eyes softened again, deeper this time, like something in her recognized that version of him too—the one that had gone on without her because he had to.

She didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t rush him out of it.

Just let it land.

And when he finished—I feel it every time—Lucy’s expression softened fully.

No guard.

No deflection.

“Then I’m glad you do,” she said quietly.

A small breath.

“Because I mean it every time.”

There.

Simple.

Clean.

No hiding in it.

The entrapment comment made her huff out a quiet laugh, her head tipping slightly as she looked at him again.

“Yeah, well,” she said, a little lighter now, “you walked into that.”

Her eyes flicked down to the burrata, then back up again.

“You started it with all the honesty.”

There was a hint of a smile still sitting at the corner of her mouth when he told her to eat before she made him say anything else true.

“Terrifying concept,” she murmured. “You being honest in public.”

But she picked up her fork.

Took another bite.

Slower this time.

Easier.

When he said he liked that she asked, her expression softened again—quieter now, but steady.

“I wanted to know,” she said simply.

No performance.

Just truth.

And when he said he got one back later, her brows lifted just slightly, a flicker of curiosity passing through her expression.

“Okay,” she said, a little softer. “That’s fair.”

A tiny pause.

“I’ll be ready.”

(…she would not be ready.)

The burrata comment—unbelievable behavior—made her smile again, fuller this time.

“You loved it,” she said, not even trying to hide it.

Her head tilted just slightly, eyes warm, teasing.

“You’re still recovering.”

And then—

without overthinking it this time—

Lucy set her fork down for a second and reached across the table again.

Her fingers found his like they had earlier.

Easier now.

More natural.

Like the space between them had already been crossed once and didn’t need to be questioned again.

She gave his hand a small, absent squeeze—thumb brushing once over his knuckles—before picking her fork back up with her other hand.

“Maybe I’ll just do it more often,” she added lightly, glancing up at him through her lashes with a small, almost shy smile.

A beat.

“So you can get used to it.”

Cameron Tate

04-12-2026, 09:05 AM

Cameron looked down at her hand in his like he’d somehow been caught in the act of wanting exactly that.

Again.

And the worst part was, she knew it now.

Knew exactly what that little reach across the table did to him and had apparently decided that instead of being merciful about it, she was going to threaten to make it a regular occurrence.

That should have felt dangerous.

It mostly felt perfect.

His mouth curved slowly, warmth pulling through him so clean and fast it almost made him laugh. Not because it was funny, exactly. Because she kept doing this thing where she said something light and tossed it between them like a joke—

and then looked at him in a way that made it feel like a promise.

He let his fingers settle around hers properly before answering. Not tight. Just certain. His thumb brushed once over her knuckles, easy and unhurried, like he had no intention of giving the hand back unless absolutely required by law.

“I don’t think that’s how this works, Luce,” he said, voice low and rough-soft at the edges.

One brow lifted.

“I think if you do it more often, I just get worse.”

That got the grin back into his mouth a little more fully. Warmer. A little dangerous in the candlelight.

“Which feels like a design flaw, but I’m willing to live with it.”

He didn’t look away when he said it.

Didn’t smooth it over too fast.

Because she was still holding his hand. Because she’d offered him that little shy smile through her lashes like she hadn’t just casually wrecked his ability to act normal across a table for the second time tonight. Because he had spent too many years imagining this would never happen again to treat any of it like it was ordinary now that it was.

And apparently she’d decided he didn’t need to.

That got him.

He leaned back just enough to keep them easy, to let the room stay what it was—a date, not a scene—but his fingers stayed laced with hers at the edge of the table, hidden mostly by the candle and the angle of the menus. Private. Intimate in the quietest way.

“You really are a menace,” he murmured, amused now. “You say things like that and then expect me to keep eating like a gentleman.”

A tiny beat.

“Unbelievable behavior.”

But he was smiling too much for the accusation to hold.

He picked up his fork with his free hand and took another bite, still holding onto her under the table’s line of sight like it was the easiest thing in the world. And maybe it was. Maybe that was the whole point now.

The burrata really was good—good enough that he might’ve felt smug if she hadn’t just reached for him again and effectively erased his ability to care about being right about food.

He chewed, swallowed, glanced at her over the candlelight, and said, “For the record, I’m not trying to get used to it.”

That one came quieter. Simpler.

“Seems like that’d take all the fun out of it.”

His thumb moved again against her hand, slow and absentminded.

Because that was the thing, maybe.

He didn’t want her reaching for him to become some background detail he stopped noticing. Didn’t want the restaurant kisses or the little hand squeezes or the way she kept softening toward him in pieces to ever flatten out into something he took for granted. He’d done enough of that in one lifetime.

Not again.

The thought passed through him as clean as a vow.

Then, because he’d already gotten a little too honest once and could feel the moment starting to tip warm and deep again, Cameron let the easier part of himself back in.

“So if your master plan is to desensitize me,” he said, “I need you to know right now it’s not gonna take.”

He looked at her with a lazy kind of confidence, the kind that fit him now because it wasn’t hiding anything.

“You’re gonna have to find a whole new strategy.”

A server passed by with a tray of drinks for another table, low voices shifted around them, the old record playing overhead changed tracks, and still Cameron barely noticed any of it the way he noticed her.

The tilt of her mouth. The softness still sitting in her face. The fact that she hadn’t pulled her hand away yet.

He liked her like this. Relaxed enough to reach without thinking herself out of it. Still teasing, still a little dangerous, but not running from the fact that she wanted him too.

That last part still got him every single time.

He let the silence settle for a second—not awkward, just easy—then tipped his head and gave her hand the smallest squeeze.

“You know what’s funny?” he asked.

He didn’t wait long enough for it to turn into a serious question.

“A few weeks ago, if you’d told me I’d be sitting out here sharing burrata with you while you threatened to kiss me into a personality problem, I would’ve assumed I got hit in the head.”

His mouth pulled crooked.

“Hard.”

The line earned its place, but the warmth in him stayed. He couldn’t quite help that anymore. Not with her. Not tonight.

He took another drink, bourbon low and smooth, then set the glass back down and looked at her over the rim.

“And now I’m sitting here acting like holding your hand at dinner isn’t the best part of my week.” A beat. “Which, to be clear, is humiliating.”

It wasn’t humiliating. Not really.

But he liked the way it sounded between them—light enough to laugh at, true enough to land.

His fingers shifted, threading more comfortably with hers.

“And before you ask, no,” he added, “that does not mean I’m ranking the burrata second.”

A tiny pause.

“It’s doing great. It just never stood a chance.”

That one he delivered with the same easy, romantic confidence that had been showing up more and more with her lately—not polished, not rehearsed, just rooted in the fact that he was done pretending to be cooler than how much he liked this.

Then his expression changed a little.

Not serious exactly. More curious.

He glanced at their joined hands, then back up at her face, and said, “So is that your move now?”

His tone stayed warm, playful.

“The sneak attack hand thing?”

One brow lifted.

“Because I’d like some warning before I start building a false sense of security.”

He knew there wouldn’t be warning. That was the point.

But he liked imagining there would be. Liked imagining her doing this again—next week, next table, next drive, next quiet little moment where she forgot herself just enough to reach for him and let it happen.

That image landed low in his chest and stayed there.

Then the server returned with the entrée plates, and Cameron finally, reluctantly, loosened his hold on her hand enough to make room. The steak hit the table in a wash of warm scent and butter and rosemary, the side alongside it looking indulgent enough to justify everything he’d said earlier.

He glanced down at the plate, then back at her, already smiling.

“Well,” he said, reaching for the knife, “moment of truth.”

He looked at her like this was absurdly important. Like her verdict actually mattered—which, at this point, it did.

“If this goes wrong, I’d just like to remind the court I was set up for failure by a very distracting dining companion.”

The line came out low and easy, but the look he gave her after was softer than that.

Not because he was trying to impress her. Because he liked her. Because he liked that she could get him this distracted and then sit there looking quietly pleased with herself for it.

And because he wasn’t blind, he added, “You know that smile you’re trying not to do?”

A beat.

“It’s not subtle.”

That got a real grin out of him this time—open, bright, impossible not to see.

Then he cut into the steak, gave her the first slice without a word, and nudged it toward her side of the plate with the easy confidence of a man who was fully prepared to live or die by her judgment.

“Go on,” he said, settling back just enough to watch her. “Destroy me if you need to.”

Lucille Corbett

04-12-2026, 07:11 PM

Lucy didn’t rush to answer him.

She just looked at him for a second—really looked—like she was taking in all of it at once. The way he was smiling, the way he kept holding her hand like it wasn’t even a question anymore, the way he said things like it’s the best part of my week and then tried to pretend it was embarrassing instead of just… true.

Her mouth curved, slow and soft.

“You’re already worse,” she said quietly, her thumb brushing once against his knuckles before she let herself ease her hand back just enough to reach for her fork again.

A small beat.

“I don’t think I need a new strategy.”

There was something gentle in it. Certain, but not heavy.

When he called her a menace, she huffed a quiet breath of a laugh, glancing down at the table like she was trying—and failing—to hide the smile he’d already called out.

“You’re being dramatic,” she murmured again, softer this time. “You’re eating just fine.”

Her eyes flicked up to his, warm.

“Mostly.”

The not getting used to it line landed, and she didn’t joke over it.

Didn’t brush it off.

She just nodded a little, like she understood exactly what he meant without needing it explained again.

“Good,” she said, almost under her breath.

Then, after a second—

“I don’t want it to be normal either.”

It was quiet. Simple. No performance.

But it stayed.

The desensitize comment pulled a faint smile back to her lips, something a little more playful returning as she tilted her head slightly.

“I figured,” she said. “You don’t seem like you’d adjust well.”

A tiny pause.

“You get attached.”

Her gaze lingered on him just a second longer when she said it—something softer tucked into the edges of the joke.

When he talked about a few weeks ago, Lucy’s expression shifted again—subtle, but there. Her eyes dropped briefly to the candle between them, watching it flicker like she was picturing it too.

“I wouldn’t have believed it either,” she said quietly.

Then she looked back up at him.

“But I’m glad you didn’t get hit in the head.”

A small beat.

“Probably would’ve ruined the date.”

That brought just enough lightness back in.

When he said holding her hand was the best part of his week, Lucy’s smile softened again—less teasing now, more… real.

“That’s not humiliating,” she said gently.

Her voice stayed low.

“It’s just… nice.”

Her fingers lingered for a second longer near his before she finally let the space between them shift for the food.

But the warmth didn’t go with it.

When he asked if it was her move now, her brows lifted slightly, like she was actually considering it.

“Maybe,” she said, quiet and thoughtful.

Then her mouth tipped.

“I don’t think you need warning.”

A beat.

“You seem to like it.”

Her tone was light—but not dismissive.

Just… true.

The plates arrived, and Lucy’s attention shifted down, but not fully away from him. She could still feel it—the way the night had settled into something softer, something easier to sit in without second-guessing every little thing.

When he said moment of truth, she exhaled a small breath through her nose, like she was preparing herself.

“I’m ready,” she said, a hint of a smile still sitting there.

“And for the record—” her eyes flicked up to his “—you’re absolutely blaming me if it’s bad. That’s already been established.”

The distracting dining companion comment earned him a look—one that lingered just a second longer than teasing required.

“I think you just like having an excuse,” she said quietly.

Then—

when he called out her smile again—

she didn’t hide it.

Didn’t even try.

“Okay,” she admitted softly. “Maybe I am.”

A small pause.

“Still not your business.”

But it clearly was.

Lucy picked up her knife and fork, cutting into the piece he’d given her. This time slower, more deliberate—not because she needed to be, but because she was aware of him watching. Of the way this had turned into something small and shared and quietly intimate.

She dragged the piece through the juices on the plate, letting it pick up a little more flavor before lifting it.

Took the bite.

And again—

she didn’t speak right away.

Her expression shifted, just slightly. A softening at the edges, a quiet confirmation she didn’t bother hiding.

She swallowed.

“…okay,” she said, quieter now.

Another small beat as her eyes flicked back to his.

“It’s really good.”

Her mouth curved faintly.

“I still don’t like that you’re right.”

Then—

without thinking too hard about it—

Lucy cut another piece.

Ran it through the juices again.

Lifted it.

And held the fork out toward him.

Closer this time.

More certain.

“It’s good,” she said softly, her eyes staying on his. “You should try it too.”

A tiny pause.

“…just to be sure.”

Cameron Tate

04-13-2026, 12:14 AM

Cameron looked at the fork in her hand like she’d just offered him something far more dangerous than steak.

Not because of the bite itself.

Because of the way she held it out.

Certain. Steady. Like it belonged in the space between them now, this easy little intimacy of feeding him across a candlelit table and pretending it was just quality control.

And God, she was killing him.

His eyes lifted from the fork to her face, catching the quiet curve of her mouth, the way the candlelight warmed her skin, the look in her eyes that said she knew exactly what this was doing to him and had decided not to rescue him from it.

He leaned forward slowly, keeping his gaze on hers as he took the bite from the fork.

Deliberate. Not rushed. Not overplayed.

Just enough to let the moment land where it wanted to.

The steak really was excellent, but for one second Cameron barely tasted it, because he was too busy dealing with the fact that Lucy Corbett was sitting across from him in a dark little restaurant thirty-five minutes outside town, feeding him a bite of his own entrée like she’d already decided this was their language now.

He sat back again, chewing, one brow lifting faintly in quiet acknowledgment before he swallowed.

“Well,” he said, voice lower than it had been a second ago, “that was wildly effective.”

His mouth tipped.

“The steak’s good too.”

There was the line. The easy one. The one that kept the room breathing.

But the look in his face stayed warmer than that, and when she started to draw the fork back, Cameron reached across just enough to catch her wrist lightly for half a beat—not stopping her, just holding her there long enough to make sure she felt the shape of what he was about to say.

“You know you’re beautiful, right?”

The words came out unhurried. No smirk to soften them. No performance wrapped around the middle.

Just truth.

His eyes moved over her face once, not quickly, and settled back on hers.

“In here, like this?” He gave the smallest shake of his head, almost to himself. “It’s a little hard to act like I’m handling it better than I am.”

That got closer to a smile, but only at the edges.

Because he meant it. Because she deserved to hear it cleanly, not hidden in a joke or shrugged off like it didn’t matter.

He let go of her wrist then, easy as breathing, and leaned back into the booth with his own fork in hand, though he didn’t use it yet.

“I’m also starting to think this whole thing where you look at me like that and then casually hand me food is some kind of setup,” he added. “Feels targeted.”

That brought some air back into it.

Enough.

He cut himself another bite, but his attention kept drifting back to her, to the quiet pleasure still sitting in her face, to the fact that this whole night had somehow become warmer and smaller and more intimate by degrees until sharing a plate felt like something loaded.

Maybe it was.

Maybe all the little things were.

Cameron took another bite, swallowed, then nodded once toward the plate.

“Okay,” he said, “I’ll give it to you. This is the right call.”

A beat.

“Our call,” he corrected, because she had started that and he had every intention of keeping it.

His hand rested near the candle between them, fingers loose around the stem of his glass, and the confidence in him now didn’t read like swagger. It read like comfort. Like a man who liked the woman across from him enough not to pretend otherwise.

“You know what I’m realizing?” he said after a second.

He didn’t wait for permission. Didn’t seem to need it.

“I like taking you out.”

Simple. Steady. No hedging.

And because he was still himself—still warm, still just a little bit of a flirt when he got too sincere—his mouth curved as he added, “Which is inconvenient, because now I’m gonna keep wanting to do it.”

There.

Present. Future. Nothing dragged backward.

He let that sit between them in the candlelight and didn’t rush to dilute it. The room around them stayed low and amber and soft with other people’s conversations, but their table felt separate now in a way he had stopped trying to name.

Cameron glanced down at the menu again—not because he needed it anymore, but because it gave his eyes something to do for half a second while his thoughts got ahead of him.

He could picture it too easily.

Another drive. Another place. Her in the passenger seat giving him a hard time before they’d even left town. Her stealing from his plate after threatening judgment. Her reaching across tables and knocking him half sideways with something small and careless and intimate like it was no big deal.

The thought warmed him straight through.

When he looked back at her, the fondness in his face hadn’t gone anywhere.

“Next time,” he said, almost absentmindedly at first, like the idea had simply arrived fully formed, “I’m picking somewhere with a view.”

His brows lifted slightly.

“Not because I think I need to top this. I’m not getting into a romantic arms race with myself.” That got a faint grin out of him. “Just because I want to see what you do when you’ve got something else to critique besides my entrée choices.”

He took another sip of his drink, then settled the glass back down.

“And before you say it,” he added, “yes, I know that sounded confident.”

His gaze stayed on hers.

“It was.”

That part he didn’t walk back.

Because why would he? He was here with her. She had kissed him across a table. She had held his hand and fed him a bite and called him on his smile and stayed with him inside all the quieter things that mattered. He didn’t have any interest in pretending this felt shaky when it didn’t.

Not to him.

“I’m not worried about getting another date out of you,” he said, voice low and even now. “I’m just trying to decide how much warning the next one needs.”

The line came with enough flirtation to keep it from sounding too certain, but the certainty was still there underneath it all the same.

He meant it.

Then his mouth tipped again, easier now.

“Though if you keep doing that thing with the fork, I may have to start choosing restaurants based entirely on whether they let me recover in public.”

He let her have that one, let the smile breathe, then reached for the side dish and nudged it a little closer between them like he was building a case for shared plates as a lifestyle.

“What I’m saying is,” he went on, “I’d like to make this a recurring problem.”

Cameron said it lightly enough that another man might have tried to pass it off as a joke.

He didn’t.

His eyes stayed too warm. His tone too sure.

Not heavy. Not asking for forever over dinner.

Just honest enough to let her know that he wasn’t sitting here thinking about this as some one-off perfect night he’d be lucky to survive. He was already thinking about the next one. About other tables. Other drives. More of this.

And still—still—he managed to make it feel easy instead of loaded.

He picked up his knife and cut another piece of steak, then paused before taking it.

“You should also know,” he said, “I’m gonna be insufferable about the fact that I was right.”

One brow lifted.

“Not immediately. I know how to behave.” A tiny pause. “For at least another ten minutes.”

That got the warmth back up into the room where he wanted it. The kind that let intimacy stay standing without either of them needing to rescue it from itself.

He ate, then pointed lightly with his fork toward her plate.

“Another bite,” he said. “I need confirmation this wasn’t beginner’s luck.”

He leaned back again, relaxed and impossibly comfortable in his own skin now, but there was still that bright thread of attention in him—still that way he looked at her like the whole evening kept surprising him in exactly the right direction.

And when he smiled at her again, it was with the kind of confidence that came from not needing to prove anything anymore.

“You’re very distracting,” he told her, almost conversationally. “I just want that noted in case my decision-making gets even worse from here.”

His gaze drifted over her face once more, slower this time, lingering just long enough to make the compliment from earlier feel like it was still living in the room.

“Which is a real possibility,” he added. “You look incredible.”

Not fancy. Not overworked. Just the truth again.

And because he couldn’t help himself, because the candlelight was doing her every favor and she was looking back at him with that soft, dangerous little expression that made him want to keep talking just to see what happened next, Cameron smiled one last time and said, low and easy:

“So be nice to me. I’m clearly trying my best.”

Lucille Corbett

04-13-2026, 04:39 AM

Lucy didn’t pull the fork back right away.

Not when he leaned in like that.
Not when he looked at her like that.

She just watched him take the bite, her hand still suspended between them for a second longer than necessary, her fingers steady even though there was this quiet little flutter low in her chest that she was trying very hard to pretend wasn’t happening.

It was ridiculous, honestly.

It was just steak.

Except it wasn’t.

Her lips pressed together faintly as she finally drew the fork back, the smallest hint of a smile tugging there when he said that was wildly effective.

“Mm,” she hummed softly, glancing down at her plate like she needed to check something that absolutely did not need checking. “I try.”

But her eyes flicked back up to his almost immediately.

They always did.

And when his hand caught her wrist—

Lucy stilled.

Not dramatically. Not enough to pull away.

Just enough that her breath caught for half a second, her gaze lifting fully to his face now, the candlelight catching in her eyes as she waited.

Then he said it.

And for once—
for once—Lucy didn’t have something clever ready.

Her expression softened in a way she didn’t quite manage to stop. The teasing slipped, just a little, replaced by something warmer, quieter. Realer.

Her cheeks warmed—not a full flush, just enough that she could feel it—and she let out a small breath through her nose, her fingers loosening slightly around the fork.

“You…” she started, then stopped, her mouth curving faintly like she didn’t quite know what to do with that version of him when he said things so plainly.

Her voice came softer when she tried again.

“You’re doing fine,” she murmured.

A tiny beat.

“Better than fine.”

It wasn’t a deflection.

It was an answer.

Her eyes held his for a second longer, something gentler sitting there before she finally let herself ease her wrist free when he did, the moment settling back into something easier without disappearing completely.

Because it didn’t.

It stayed.

When he called her a setup, Lucy let out a quiet laugh, this time a little more herself again, head tilting slightly.

“Targeted?” she echoed. “That feels dramatic.”

Her brows lifted just a little.

“I’m just making sure you experience your own decisions properly.”

A small pause.

“Very thoughtful of me, actually.”

But the way her smile lingered said she knew exactly what she was doing.

When he corrected it to our call, Lucy’s lips curved again—softer this time, almost instinctive.

She didn’t point it out.

Didn’t make a joke out of it.

She just let it land.

Then—

I like taking you out.

That one… lingered.

Lucy’s fingers stilled lightly against her fork again, her gaze shifting to him a little more fully, something quieter moving through her expression. Not startled. Not guarded.

Just… aware.

“You do?” she said softly.

It wasn’t disbelief.

Just a small, genuine curiosity—like she was letting herself hear it instead of brushing past it.

Her mouth tipped faintly at the edges.

“Good,” she added after a second, almost under her breath. “Because I like being taken out.”

A tiny pause.

“By you,” she corrected, quieter.

Then immediately looked back down at her plate like that hadn’t just slipped out quite so honestly.

The next time got her again.

Not in a way that made her pull back.

In a way that made her lips press together for a second, like she was holding something in—something softer than she was ready to fully show.

But it showed anyway.

In the way her shoulders relaxed.
In the way her gaze lifted back to his without hesitation.

“A view?” she murmured, one brow lifting slightly. “So now you’re trying to impress me.”

A beat.

“It’s working.”

Her voice stayed light, but there was something under it now—something that wasn’t trying quite so hard to pretend this didn’t matter.

When he said he wasn’t worried about getting another date—

Lucy’s eyes flicked up to his immediately.

And there it was again.

That little shift.

That small, quiet drop of her guard.

She didn’t challenge it.

Didn’t tease it.

She just looked at him for a second, her expression softening in a way that felt almost… settled.

“You shouldn’t be,” she said gently.

No edge. No game.

Just truth.

Then, softer—

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The moment sat there for a second before she rescued them both from it, just a little.

When he mentioned the fork again, she smiled, shaking her head faintly.

“You’re not recovering from that, are you?” she said, amused.

“Good.”

A small beat.

“Then I’ll keep it.”

Her tone was light again, but there was a quiet promise tucked into it.

Recurring problem.

That one made her smile—slow, a little shy this time, even if she tried to hide it by reaching for her drink.

She took a small sip, then glanced back at him over the rim of the glass.

“I think I could live with that,” she said.

Then, softer—

“Pretty easily.”

When he said he’d be insufferable, Lucy huffed a quiet laugh, setting her glass back down.

“You already are,” she said sweetly. “This just confirms it.”

Her eyes flicked to the steak again, then back to him.

“But I’ll allow it.”

A tiny pause.

“For now.”

At his insistence, she picked up her fork again, cutting another piece—smaller this time, more absentminded, like she was less focused on proving anything now and more just… enjoying it.

She dragged it through the juices again, the motion slow, deliberate without meaning to be.

Then took the bite.

This time she didn’t hesitate at all.

Her expression softened again almost immediately, a quiet little exhale leaving her as she swallowed.

“Okay,” she admitted, glancing at him with a small, conceding smile. “It’s still good.”

Her brows lifted slightly.

“You can stay proud.”

Then, softer—

“Just don’t get comfortable.”

When he called her distracting, Lucy tilted her head just slightly, watching him in that thoughtful, almost curious way she had when she wasn’t deflecting.

“I don’t think that’s my fault,” she said quietly.

A small beat.

“I think you’re just easily distracted.”

Her mouth curved again, softer this time.

Then—

you look incredible.

That one hit differently.

It always did when he said it like that.

Not flashy. Not exaggerated.

Just… certain.

Lucy’s gaze dropped for a second, her fingers fidgeting lightly with the edge of her fork before she looked back up at him, something softer and a little more shy sitting in her expression now.

“Thank you,” she said, quieter than before.

A tiny pause.

“You clean up okay too.”

It was gentle. Playful.

But her eyes lingered just a second longer than the joke required.

Then she leaned forward just slightly again—not as bold as the kiss before, not as obvious—but enough to close the space between them just a little, her presence warm across the table.

Her voice dropped, softer now.

“I am being nice to you,” she murmured.

Her lips curved faintly.

“You’re the one struggling.”

A small pause.

Then, with just a hint of mischief returning—

“Try to keep up.”

Lucy let that moment sit exactly where it was for a second longer.

Just long enough to feel it.

The way he was looking at her.
The way the table didn’t feel like a table anymore so much as… something smaller. Closer.

Then she broke it—gently.

She reached for her glass, fingers wrapping around the stem of her martini, and took a slow sip. The bitterness hit first, then the warmth, and she let out the smallest breath through her nose as she set it back down.

“Okay,” she murmured, almost to herself. “That’s dangerous.”

Her eyes flicked back up to him, a hint of a smile returning, softer now.

She picked up her fork again, cutting another piece of steak—this time without ceremony, without testing it like before. Just easy. Comfortable. Like she’d already decided it was good and didn’t need to prove anything else.

She dragged it lightly through the juices again out of habit more than intention, then took the bite.

Chewed.

Swallowed.

And then—only then—looked back at him.

There was something quieter in her expression now. Less guarded. Less… checking.

More curious.

Her head tilted just slightly, studying him over the candlelight like she was trying to read something he hadn’t said out loud yet.

“What are you thinking for the next one?” she asked.

It came soft. Casual on the surface.

But not careless.

Her fingers idly traced along the edge of her plate, fork resting loosely in her hand as she watched him, not rushing to fill the space after.

“A view is… vague,” she added after a second, a faint, teasing lift to her brow. “That could mean a lot of things.”

A tiny pause.

“Mountains?” she guessed, lips curving just a little. “Water? Or are you just planning on parking somewhere scenic and hoping I’m impressed by your commitment to ambiance?”

There was a hint of a smile there now, something warmer tucked into it.

But she didn’t look away.

Didn’t retreat back into deflection.

She stayed right there—leaned in just enough, steady, watching him like she actually wanted to hear the answer.

Because she did.

Because the idea of a next one didn’t make her pull back anymore.

It just made her… curious.

Cameron Tate

04-13-2026, 07:03 PM

Cameron had already been having a hard enough time across that table.

Then she told him he cleaned up okay.

Softly. Like she wasn’t trying to do damage. Like the way her eyes stayed on his after was just an afterthought and not the thing that sent a slow, helpless grin pulling at his mouth before he could stop it.

“Okay?” he repeated, low and amused, like he was genuinely considering whether to file an objection. “That feels a little stingy.”

But there was no real complaint in it. None at all.

Not when she leaned in like that. Not when she dropped her voice and told him she was the one being nice while he was the one struggling.

That got him.

The line. The look. The fact that she clearly knew it got him and said it anyway.

Cameron leaned back just enough to keep from doing something reckless in a restaurant and looked at her like she had become his favorite problem in the world.

“I am keeping up,” he said, warm and easy, one brow lifting. “I’m just doing it with manners.”

A beat.

“You’re makin’ that harder than it needs to be.”

The smile stayed in his voice even after she broke the moment and reached for her martini, but the look he gave her when she called it dangerous was pure satisfaction.

Because of course it was.

Of course she ordered the one thing that matched her perfectly—sharp at first, smoother after, pretty enough to get people in trouble if they underestimated it.

He didn’t say that part out loud.

Mostly because she’d probably throw bread at him.

Instead he watched her cut another bite of steak, watched the quiet way she moved now that she’d stopped testing the night and started sitting inside it, and when she asked him what he was thinking for the next one, something in his chest went warm and bright all over again.

Not because she’d asked. Because she’d asked like there was obviously going to be one.

That mattered.

He let himself enjoy that for half a second before answering.

“No,” he said, the corner of his mouth tugging. “I’m not draggin’ you to a scenic parking lot and trying to pass off truck headlights as romance.”

He shook his head once, almost offended on principle.

“I’ve got more respect for both of us than that.”

His fingers moved idly around the stem of his glass as he thought it through, gaze holding hers.

“I was thinking somewhere up high,” he said after a second. “Not fancy for the sake of being fancy. Just… somewhere you can see the lights below and hear yourself think a little.”

The line came out steadier than he expected. Less performative. More like he’d actually pictured it.

Because he had.

Her across from him again, but not boxed in. A place with some room to breathe. A place where the night itself did some of the work.

“Mountains, probably,” he added. “Or a terrace if I can find one that doesn’t look like it was designed by a man who says the word curated too much.”

That earned its place.

“Could be a place with a real view. Could just be one where I get to keep you a little longer.” His brows lifted faintly. “I’m flexible.”

That one landed lower. More honest. And he didn’t bother taking the edge off it.

Because why would he?

She was sitting across from him in candlelight asking about the next date like it belonged in the conversation. He wasn’t going to pretend he hadn’t heard the trust in that.

He cut himself another piece of steak, but before he took the bite, he added, “And for the record, if I was trying to impress you with ambiance, I’d know better than to gamble on a parking lot.”

His mouth curved.

“You’d tear me apart.”

He ate then, slower this time, eyes still drifting back to her every few seconds like he couldn’t quite help it. The old record overhead shifted tracks again, glasses clinked softly somewhere behind her shoulder, and the room kept glowing low and warm around them.

Cameron set his fork down and leaned back into the booth, relaxed and confident in the way he only seemed to get when he was fully enjoying himself.

“Though now I’m curious,” he said. “What actually counts as a good view to you?”

His tone stayed light, but the question underneath it was real.

“Not the answer you’d give just to sound hard to impress,” he added. “The real one.”

A small pause.

“Lights? Water? Something quiet enough that you can hear the wind a little? What’s the one that actually gets you?”

There was that same thing again—the way he asked her questions like he wanted the truth, not the polished one. Like whatever she gave him was the part he was after.

And because he couldn’t leave well enough alone, he smiled once more and said, “I’d like to avoid picking the wrong kind of beautiful if I can help it.”

That got a little closer to flirtation again, but his eyes stayed too warm for it to be only that.

He looked at her over the candlelight and let himself be just confident enough to say the next part without flinching.

“I’m planning on earning the next one.”

Lucille Corbett

04-13-2026, 08:23 PM

Lucy’s lips curved the second he said stingy.

Not defensive. Not apologetic.

Just… amused.

She tilted her head slightly, eyes still on him, that soft, steady look she’d been giving him more and more tonight settling in again.

“You got a compliment,” she murmured. “Don’t get greedy.”

A tiny pause.

“Those don’t come in bulk.”

But there was warmth tucked into it—something that took the edge out of the tease before it could land too sharp.

When he said he was keeping up with manners, her brows lifted just slightly, her gaze dipping—briefly, almost unconsciously—before coming back to his.

“Mm,” she hummed. “Sure.”

Her lips pressed together faintly like she was holding back something else, then softened again.

“They’re doing a lot of heavy lifting for you.”

It wasn’t dismissive.

If anything, it sounded… impressed in a way she wasn’t quite saying outright.

She took another sip of her drink when he started talking about the next date, quieter now, listening instead of interrupting. Watching him think it through instead of jumping ahead of it.

And the more he talked, the more her expression shifted.

Not dramatically.

Just… less guarded.

“No parking lot,” she repeated softly, almost like she was filing it away. “Good.”

A faint smile tugged at her mouth.

“I had higher expectations.”

Her eyes stayed on him as he went on, especially when his tone changed—when it stopped sounding like a plan and started sounding like something he’d actually imagined.

Somewhere up high.

Lights below.

Quiet.

She could see it.

That was the problem.

Her fingers slowed where they rested against her glass, her gaze dropping for a second before lifting back to his, softer now.

“That sounds nice,” she said quietly.

Not exaggerated.

Not dressed up.

Just… honest.

When he added keep you a little longer, her breath caught just slightly—small enough that most people wouldn’t notice it.

He would.

Her eyes flicked to his again, something warmer sitting there before she let it settle instead of pushing it away.

“You’re doing a lot better than just nice,” she said, just as soft.

A small pause.

“I’d stay for that.”

It wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t heavy.

But it was real.

When he said she’d tear him apart over a parking lot, she huffed a quiet laugh, her shoulders easing a little more.

“I would,” she agreed simply. “You’d deserve it.”

Then—

his question.

The real one.

Lucy stilled for a second, her fork hovering over her plate before she set it down again, fingers brushing lightly against the edge like she needed something steady while she thought.

She didn’t rush it.

Didn’t deflect it.

Because he’d asked her like it mattered.

Her eyes dropped to the candle between them for a second, watching the flame flicker before she looked back up at him.

“Not loud,” she said first, voice quieter now.

Her fingers traced the rim of her glass again, slow, absent.

“I don’t like places that feel like they’re trying to prove something,” she went on. “Like… you’re supposed to be impressed the second you walk in.”

Her lips pressed together faintly, then softened.

“I like when it feels like you found it,” she said. “Not… like it was handed to you.”

A small pause.

Her gaze met his again.

“I like lights,” she admitted. “But not busy ones. Just… far enough away that everything feels a little quieter.”

Her head tilted slightly, thinking.

“And I like when you don’t feel rushed,” she added. “Like you could sit there as long as you want and nobody’s waiting for you to be done.”

Another small pause.

“But that’s just the view.”

Her mouth curved faintly, like she knew that wasn’t really what he was asking.

She shifted slightly in her seat, settling more comfortably now, her tone softening further.

“My perfect date isn’t really about the place,” she said.

Her eyes stayed on his this time.

“It’s… the whole thing.”

She let out a small breath, almost a quiet laugh under it.

“The drive matters,” she said. “Like… talking about nothing, but it still feels like something.”

Her fingers tapped lightly against the table.

“Music matters. Not in a curated way. Just… whatever ends up playing. And you don’t overthink it, you just sing anyway.”

Her expression softened a little more.

“And dinner matters less than people think,” she added. “Like, it can be really good or just okay, but if the person across from you feels right, it kind of stops being the point.”

A tiny pause.

Her voice dropped just slightly.

“I think the best part is after,” she admitted. “When you don’t feel done yet.”

Her gaze didn’t leave his now.

“Like you’re not watching the time. You’re not thinking about leaving. You just… stay a little longer.”

There was something quieter in her face now. Something more open.

But she didn’t pull back from it.

She let it sit there.

Then, softer—

“And it doesn’t feel forced.”

That part landed gently between them.

A small beat passed before her mouth curved again, lighter now, like she was easing them back out of it without undoing anything she’d said.

“Which,” she added, glancing down at her plate before looking back up at him, “is kind of annoying.”

Her brows lifted slightly.

“Because this…” she gestured faintly between them, the table, the food, the room.

“…kind of checks most of that.”

A tiny pause.

“I wasn’t planning on that,” she admitted.

Her smile softened just a little more.

“But I think you did okay.”

Not perfect.

Not amazing.

Just… okay.

And somehow, the way she said it—

the way her eyes stayed on his after—

made it feel like the best thing she could’ve given him.

Cameron Tate

04-14-2026, 05:24 PM

Cameron didn’t answer right away.

He just looked at her.

Not because he was trying to be smooth about it. Not because he thought silence would make the moment better.

Because for one helpless second, he had absolutely nothing useful to do with the fact that she had just handed him the shape of a perfect night and, piece by piece, described the one they were already sitting in.

The drive. The music. The not overthinking. The part after dinner when no one wanted to leave yet. The quiet. The ease.

And then, like it wasn’t enough to ruin him already, she’d looked at him and said he’d done okay.

Okay.

He almost laughed.

Not because it wasn’t enough.

Because coming from her, with that look on her face and that softness still sitting in her voice, it felt like she’d just handed him the moon and called it moderate effort.

His mouth pulled slow at one corner.

“Okay?” he said at last, low and warm, one brow lifting. “That’s twice tonight you’ve tried to undersell something on purpose.”

There was no complaint in it. Only the kind of amused fondness that had been living in him all evening and showing up whether he meant for it to or not.

He reached for his glass, but didn’t drink yet. Just turned it a little between his fingers and kept looking at her across the candlelight.

“Good to know I’m apparently workshopping a near-passable date experience.”

The tease landed where he wanted it to—light enough to keep her from feeling pinned under what she’d just given him.

But it only lasted a beat.

Because he couldn’t stay there, not fully. Not after the way she’d said all of that. Not after the honesty in it.

The smile in his mouth softened.

“Though,” he said, quieter now, “that might be one of the nicest things anybody’s ever said to me.”

That one he meant.

Not because nobody had ever praised him before. God knew plenty of people had, for all kinds of easy reasons that had never really stuck.

This was different.

This wasn’t about how he looked or how charming he could be or whether he knew how to carry a conversation.

It was about her hearing herself in the night and realizing she liked what it sounded like.

That landed somewhere deep.

He leaned forward just slightly, forearms settling near the edge of the table again, posture relaxed but all his attention on her.

“I like that you notice the whole thing,” he said. “Most people act like the place does all the work. Like if the lighting’s good and the drinks cost enough, that’s supposed to carry it.”

He shook his head once.

“But you’re right. It’s the in-between stuff.”

The drive. The song that comes on at the right time. The pause after dinner when no one’s reaching for the check because neither one of you is done.

The parts that couldn’t really be bought or staged.

His eyes held hers.

“And for the record, I agree with you about the after part.”

That came out lower. Softer.

“The best part is when no one’s in a hurry.”

He didn’t say more than that. Didn’t need to. There was already enough meaning in the room without him loading more onto it.

The steak cooled a little between them. The candle bent and righted itself. A low laugh rose and fell somewhere behind her shoulder.

And Cameron found himself smiling again—not the broad, joking one, but the smaller kind that only really showed up when he was more affected than he wanted to be and not ashamed of it enough to hide.

“So,” he said, a little easier now, “mountains. A drive. Something quiet. Time after.”

His brows lifted faintly.

“That’s useful.”

It would have been easy to make that sound too pointed. Too much like strategy.

It didn’t.

Because the warmth in him took the edge off it before it could sharpen.

“I’m not writing it down or anything,” he added. “I’m just saying, if I mysteriously end up with better instincts next time, I’d like some credit for being an excellent listener.”

That got the air back into the booth where he wanted it.

He picked up his fork again and cut another bite, but before he took it, he looked back up at her and said, “And if this already checks most of the boxes, I’d just like to officially note that I’m feeling real confident about my trajectory.”

There it was again—funny, a little flirty, just enough swagger to make it sound like him.

But not hollow. Not performed.

Because he was confident.

Not in some broad, careless way. Not the old kind that assumed good things would happen because he wanted them to.

This was steadier than that.

He felt good here. With her. At this table. In this night.

He took the bite, swallowed, then gave her a look over the candlelight that was softer than the grin in his voice.

“You saying you weren’t planning on this,” he said, “makes me feel a little better, by the way.”

A small pause.

“Because I wasn’t planning on being this gone before the appetizer round either.”

That got closer to the truth than he’d maybe intended, but once it was out there, he didn’t rush to get it back.

He let her have it.

Then he leaned back again, one arm stretching along the booth, completely at ease and maybe a little too pleased with himself for how natural that ease felt now.

“Still,” he said, looking at her like she was the best thing in the room and not trying particularly hard to disguise it, “I’ll take okay.”

A beat.

“From you, that feels pretty close to a standing ovation.”

His mouth curved when he said it, but his eyes stayed too honest for it to land as pure tease.

He meant it. He knew she’d hear that.

And because he couldn’t let the whole thing turn too quiet and reverent or he’d end up saying something even worse, Cameron reached for the side dish, nudged it a little closer between them, and said, “Go on. Try that too.”

His brows lifted.

“If I’m being evaluated, I’d like the full report.”

Then, as if the thought had only just occurred to him, though it clearly hadn’t, he added, “And if your standards are this high, I’m gonna need to know what I’m working toward by dessert.”

His glass caught the candlelight again when he lifted it.

“Which means,” he said, “at some point before the night’s over, you’re telling me your current top three.”

A small pause.

“Restaurants. Not complaints.”

The grin came back then—easy, confident, warm enough to make the line feel like a hand held out instead of a challenge.

“Though I assume there’s overlap.”

He took a sip, set the glass down, and let his gaze rest on her for a second longer before he said, low and easy:

“You know, you keep doing that thing where you say something small and make it land huge.”

His head tipped slightly.

“It’s impressive.”

Lucille Corbett

04-14-2026, 07:33 PM

Lucy watched him while he talked.

Not interrupting. Not deflecting.

Just… watching.

There was something about the way he took it in—the way he didn’t rush past what she said, didn’t turn it into a joke too fast—that made it harder for her to hide behind one.

So when he said okay like that again, she didn’t immediately push back.

Her lips curved a little, softer than before, her shoulders lifting in the smallest shrug.

“I mean…” she murmured, almost like she was thinking it through as she said it. “It is okay.”

A beat.

Then, quieter—

“It’s just… a really good kind of okay.”

Her eyes flicked up to his, holding there for a second like she was letting him decide what that meant.

When he called it one of the nicest things anyone had said to him, something in her expression shifted again—subtle, but real.

The teasing didn’t disappear.

It just… stepped back.

She glanced down at her plate for a second, then back at him, a little more careful now.

“I didn’t mean it like a test,” she said softly. “Or like… you had to get it right.”

A small pause.

“I just… noticed it.”

That was the truth of it.

No performance. No grading system.

Just her, sitting in it, realizing it felt right.

When he talked about the in-between parts, Lucy nodded slightly, almost instinctively.

“Yeah,” she said. “That’s the part people miss.”

Her fingers traced lightly along the rim of her glass again.

“They think it’s supposed to be… impressive,” she added. “But it’s better when it just… works.”

Her gaze lifted back to his, steady now.

“And this does.”

Simple.

Clean.

No dressing it up.

When he repeated it back—mountains, drive, quiet, time after—her mouth curved again, a little amused this time.

“Careful,” she said lightly. “You’re starting to sound like you’re taking notes.”

But there was no real warning in it.

If anything, she looked… a little pleased.

When he said he was confident about his trajectory, she let out a quiet huff of a laugh, shaking her head faintly.

“Trajectory,” she repeated. “That’s bold.”

Her brows lifted slightly.

“But… accurate.”

The word came softer.

More honest than teasing.

When he admitted he wasn’t planning on being this gone, Lucy stilled for half a second.

Her eyes lifted to his again, something quieter passing through them—something that matched it.

“I wasn’t either,” she said.

No joke.

No deflection.

Just… there.

Then she eased back into herself a little, her lips curving faintly again.

“So I think we’re even,” she added gently.

When he said he’d take okay like a standing ovation, she rolled her eyes—soft, fond, not dismissive.

“You’re doing a lot with that,” she murmured.

But she didn’t take it back.

Didn’t downgrade it.

She just let him have it.

When he nudged the side dish toward her, she glanced down at it, then back up at him, her expression warming again.

“Full report?” she echoed, reaching for her fork.

“That feels like a lot of responsibility.”

A small pause.

“Hope you’re ready for honest feedback.”

She took a bite—this time of the side—chewing thoughtfully, her brows pulling together just slightly as she considered it.

Then she nodded once.

“It’s good,” she said. “Not as good as the steak.”

Her eyes flicked back up to his.

“But it holds its own.”

When he brought up her top three, Lucy let out a quiet laugh under her breath, shaking her head.

“Of course you’re asking that,” she said.

Her fingers tapped lightly against her glass again, thinking.

“I don’t know if I have a fixed top three,” she admitted. “It changes.”

A beat.

“But I like places that feel like they belong where they are,” she added. “Not like they could exist anywhere.”

Her gaze held his again.

“And I like places I’d go back to.”

A small pause.

“Which is harder than it sounds.”

Then—

you keep doing that thing…

Lucy blinked once, just slightly caught off guard by that.

Her mouth parted like she might argue it.

She didn’t.

Instead, she just looked at him for a second, something softer settling in her expression again.

Then she gave the smallest shrug.

“I just say what I feel,” she said simply.

No flourish. No overthinking.

Just the truth.

After a beat, she reached for her drink, lifting it and taking a slow sip, her eyes staying on him over the rim of the glass.

And this time—

she didn’t look away first.

Lucy kept her glass near her lips for a second after that sip.

Not hiding.

Just… lingering there, like she was deciding if she was going to leave it where it was or keep going.

Her eyes stayed on him over the rim, softer now. Quieter. The kind of look she only gave when she wasn’t trying to manage the moment.

Then she lowered the glass slowly, her fingers still wrapped around the stem.

Her shoulders lifted in a small, almost self-conscious shrug.

“My brain hasn’t really been doing that thing tonight,” she said.

A faint smile touched her mouth.

“The overthinking thing.”

She let out a soft breath through her nose, glancing down briefly at the table before looking back up at him.

“So that’s… good.”

There was a tiny pause there—like she could’ve stopped, could’ve pulled it back into something lighter.

She didn’t.

“I think it helps,” she went on, voice a little quieter now, but steady, “that I don’t feel like I have to… filter everything.”

Her thumb traced lightly along the stem of her glass.

“Like I can just say what I feel without…” she hesitated for half a second, then finished it honestly, “wondering if you’re gonna think I’m too much.”

Her gaze held his now.

“Or that I’m moving too fast,” she added. “Or that I’m gonna scare you off.”

A small, almost shy breath left her after that, like even saying it out loud felt new.

“I did feel like that,” she admitted. “Last week.”

Her lips curved faintly, not quite a smile, just something softer.

“But you’re still here.”

That landed simple.

No drama. No weight forced onto it.

Just fact.

“And…” she shrugged again, a little lighter this time, like she was letting herself settle into it instead of bracing against it, “my brain kind of… calmed down.”

Her eyes softened when she said it.

Not because she was trying to make it a moment.

Because it already was one.

“So now I’m just…” she trailed off for a second, searching for the right word, then gave a small, quiet smile.

“Talking,” she finished.

A tiny beat.

“Apparently a lot.”

There was a hint of her humor back in that, but it didn’t take away from what she’d just said.

If anything, it made it feel more like her.

Real.

Unforced.

She finally set her glass down, her fingers lingering on it for a second before she let go, her posture still relaxed, still open.

And when she looked at him again, there was no edge left in it.

Just her.

“I think it’s better this way,” she added softly.

Cameron Tate

04-14-2026, 09:53 PM

Cameron didn’t move for a second after she said it.

Not because he was unsure. Because he knew exactly how careful he wanted to be with an answer to that.

The room had gone quieter around them somehow. Not literally—glasses still clinked somewhere behind her, low music still drifted through the dark wood and candlelight—but at their table, everything had narrowed to her face, her glass still warm in her hand, and the truth she’d just laid down between them without trying to make it prettier than it was.

He felt that land all the way through him.

Not just the part about her not overthinking. Not just the part about not filtering.

The part about her not feeling like she had to.

That got him.

His hand moved before he said anything, reaching across the table slowly enough to give her room if she wanted it, until his fingers settled lightly over hers where they still rested near her glass.

Warm. Certain. Not crowding.

“You don’t have to,” he said quietly.

There was no performance in it. No line.

Just the truth, said exactly where it belonged.

His thumb brushed once over her knuckles, the smallest motion in the world, and his eyes stayed on hers.

“You don’t have to filter it for me. You don’t have to make it smaller so it feels easier to hand over. And you definitely don’t have to worry about being too much.”

That one came out steadier than anything else.

Because he meant it hard enough to feel it.

Cameron tipped his head slightly, his mouth pulling into the faintest, warmest smile—not enough to break the weight of the moment, just enough to soften the edges of it for her.

“You know what’s actually scary?” he asked, low and easy. “A woman sitting across from me in candlelight, sharing my steak, being honest, and somehow still thinking I might want less of her.”

The line could’ve landed heavier. Instead it landed close.

Not to overwhelm her. Just to answer her cleanly.

His fingers tightened the slightest bit around hers, then eased again.

“I’m here because I want to be,” he said. “Not because I’m being patient. Not because I’m waiting to see if you calm down enough to make me comfortable.”

A tiny pause.

“I’m here because this feels right. And because you talking to me like this doesn’t scare me off.” His mouth curved a little more. “It does the exact opposite, actually.”

That got a little warmth back into the air between them, enough to let her breathe inside it.

He didn’t let go of her hand.

Didn’t need to.

The candle between them flickered, bending gold light over the rim of her glass and the back of his knuckles, and Cameron found himself absurdly grateful for the table—grateful for the fact that all he could do right then was hold her hand and look at her and tell the truth, because anything more would’ve been too much and not enough at the same time.

When he spoke again, it came softer.

“And as for moving too fast…”

He let that sit a beat, not because he was stalling, because he wanted the next part to land right.

“I don’t feel rushed.” His thumb moved once over her skin. “I feel lucky.”

There.

That was the word.

Not trapped. Not overwhelmed. Not in over his head.

Lucky.

Lucky she was sitting here telling him the unfiltered version. Lucky she’d stopped checking every few seconds to see if she’d gone too far. Lucky she’d let the night become what it had become instead of running ahead of it and talking herself out of it.

Lucky, too, that she was still looking at him like she wanted the answer and was willing to stand there in it once she got it.

Cameron leaned back just a fraction, not enough to put distance between them, just enough to keep his voice easy when he said, “And for the record, I like the talking.”

A beat.

“Apparently a lot.”

That got the faintest grin into his mouth, but it didn’t cheapen anything.

“I like hearing what you think when you’re not editing it down for public consumption. I like knowing where your head goes when you’re comfortable enough to let it.” He tilted his head. “And I really like that you trust me with it.”

That last part came lower. Closer to the center.

Because that was what this was, under everything else.

Not just attraction. Not just good food and candles and a successful drive out of town.

Trust. In little pieces, maybe, but real enough to feel.

He held her gaze for a second longer, then finally let the warmth break into something a little easier around the edges.

“So no,” he said, “I’m not filing a complaint about you talking too much.”

His brows lifted just slightly.

“I’m encouraging it, actually.”

That got them back onto gentler ground without undoing any of what he’d just said, which felt exactly right.

Cameron let his hand slip from hers only long enough to pick up his glass, but the look he gave her over the rim stayed steady.

“And I agree with you,” he added after a sip, quieter now. “It is better this way.”

He set the glass back down, the stem clicking softly against the dark wood, and glanced once toward the dessert section of the menu before looking back at her.

“Though,” he said, a little more lightly, “now that we’ve apparently achieved emotional honesty over burrata and steak, I feel like dessert’s got a lot to live up to.”

His mouth tipped.

“Bad odds for cake, if I’m being honest.”

That eased some air back into the booth, but the warmth didn’t leave with it. It never really had.

He reached for the menu again, more to give them both something to do with the moment than because he needed it, then looked back up at her and said, “You know what I think?”

He didn’t wait.

“I think you’ve earned the right to pick something reckless.”

A small pause.

“Not because I’m trying to impress you.” His grin came back a little. “Because at this point, I’m curious what your dessert judgment says about you.”

He let that land where it wanted to, then added, “And before you answer, just know I am fully prepared to be charmed and concerned in equal measure.”

The line sat easily between them, warm and playful and threaded through with all the things he didn’t have to explain anymore.

Because she knew now.

She knew he meant it when he said stay exactly as you are. She knew he wasn’t keeping score. She knew he wasn’t trying to survive her honesty—he was asking for more of it.

And Cameron, sitting in the candlelight with her handprint still warm in his palm and the night stretching forward instead of closing down, realized he wasn’t guarding against anything anymore.

Not her. Not the next date. Not where this was going.

He was just in it.

So when he smiled at her again, it was with the kind of confidence that came from not needing to hide how much he wanted more of this—more talking, more honesty, more drives, more dinners, more of her saying exactly what she felt and trusting him not to flinch.

“Go ahead,” he said, nodding toward the dessert menu. “Tell me what sounds dangerous.”

Lucille Corbett

04-14-2026, 10:24 PM

Lucy didn’t pull her hand away when his settled over it.

If anything, her fingers shifted a little more into his, like she was answering him without interrupting.

“You don’t have to.”

Her eyes stayed on his, softer now, something in her expression loosening in a way she hadn’t really let herself do before tonight.

“I know,” she said quietly.

Not defensive. Not brushing it off.

Just… acknowledging it.

Her thumb moved lightly against his knuckles, a small, absent motion that felt more like instinct than decision.

“And I think I’m starting to believe you.”

That came out a little more honest than she probably would’ve let it last week.

But she didn’t take it back.

When he kept going—about not making it smaller, about not worrying about being too much—her lips pressed together for a second, her gaze dipping briefly to their hands before lifting back up to him.

There was a flicker of something there.

Not fear.

Relief.

“You’re making it really hard for me to go back to overthinking,” she murmured, a faint, almost shy smile pulling at her mouth.

“And I don’t hate that.”

Her shoulders relaxed a little more as he spoke, the tension she hadn’t even realized she’d been carrying easing out of her piece by piece.

When he said he felt lucky, her breath caught just slightly—subtle, but there—and her eyes softened again in a way she didn’t try to hide this time.

“That’s… really unfair,” she said softly, but there was no bite to it.

Just warmth.

“Because now I feel like I can’t even pretend to play it cool.”

A small pause.

“Which I was already failing at.”

That one came easier, a hint of her humor threading back in, but it didn’t take away from the honesty underneath it.

When he said he liked the talking, that he liked hearing her like this—unfiltered—her expression shifted again, something quieter settling in her chest.

“You’re getting a very unedited version of me tonight,” she said, almost thoughtful. “Like… no quality control at all.”

Her brows lifted slightly.

“So if that backfires later, I’m blaming you.”

But she was smiling when she said it.

Soft. Easy. Not guarded.

When he said he was encouraging it, she let out a small breath through her nose, shaking her head just slightly like she didn’t quite know what to do with that.

“Okay,” she said, quieter again. “Then I guess I’ll just… keep doing it.”

Simple.

Like it didn’t need to be more complicated than that.

Her hand stayed under his until he pulled away for his drink, and she let it linger a second longer before easing back, fingers brushing lightly against the table near her glass.

“And yeah,” she added, softer, “it is better this way.”

Her eyes followed his toward the dessert menu, then back to his face as he started talking about it.

That small, amused smile came back.

“Bad odds for cake?” she repeated, tilting her head. “Wow. That’s bold.”

Her fingers reached for the menu as he slid it toward her, pulling it closer and opening it, her eyes scanning the list—this time actually reading.

“You’re setting it up to fail before it even gets here,” she added lightly. “That feels like sabotage.”

When he said she’d earned something reckless, her mouth curved again, a little slower this time.

“Yeah?” she said, glancing up at him through her lashes. “I like the sound of that.”

Her gaze dropped back to the menu, tracing the options.

Crème brûlée.

Butter cake.

Chocolate torte.

Cobbler.

Her lips pressed together slightly as she considered it, but there was something softer behind it now—less calculating, more… curious.

“What does my dessert judgment say about me?” she echoed, almost to herself.

Then she looked back up at him, eyes a little brighter.

“Probably that I don’t commit well to one thing,” she said, a quiet tease slipping back in.

Her finger tapped lightly against the page.

“I mean, crème brûlée feels like the obvious answer. Safe, classic, everyone likes it.”

A small pause.

“But the butter cake…” her mouth tipped, “…that feels like a bad decision in the best way.”

Her eyes flicked to his again, something warmer sitting underneath it.

“And the chocolate torte feels like something you regret halfway through but still finish anyway.”

She huffed a soft laugh under her breath, shaking her head slightly.

“See, this is exactly the problem.”

Her gaze dropped back to the menu, then lifted again, more certain now.

“I don’t want to pick one.”

There it was again.

Honest. Simple.

Her fingers slid the menu closed halfway as she leaned back slightly, still looking at him.

“I want the crème brûlée,” she said, counting it off lightly. “And the butter cake.”

A small beat.

“And maybe a bite of the chocolate torte if it shows up near me.”

Her brows lifted just a little.

“I’m not committing to that one yet.”

The corner of her mouth curved again, softer now.

“So I think my dessert judgment says I like options,” she added. “And I don’t feel like being reasonable when I don’t have to be.”

Her gaze stayed on his, something quiet and steady sitting underneath it all.

“And I don’t think you mind that.”

Cameron Tate

04-15-2026, 12:01 PM

The first thing Cameron noticed was that she didn’t pull away.

Not even a little.

Her fingers settled more firmly into his when he answered her, and that tiny, instinctive shift hit him harder than half the bigger moments of the night had. Because there was no performance in it. No careful setup. Just Lucy, staying there with him, letting the truth sit where it landed instead of trying to outrun it.

When she said she was starting to believe him, something in his face softened before he could stop it.

Not dramatically. Just enough.

Enough that the warmth in his eyes lost the last of its teasing edge and turned into something quieter. More grateful.

“Good,” he said, and this time the word came out low and clean. “You should.”

There wasn’t any swagger in it. Not even confidence, exactly.

Just steadiness. The kind that didn’t need decorating.

His thumb brushed once over her knuckles again when she talked about him making it hard to go back to overthinking, and the little almost-shy smile she gave him after that did him in all over again.

He let out a soft breath through his nose and tipped his head slightly. “I can live with that.”

He meant the overthinking. The lack of it. The fact that she was sitting here, saying things cleanly, without all the extra layers she usually wrapped around them first.

Especially that.

When she called him unfair for making her feel like she couldn’t even fake her way back into cool detachment, Cameron’s mouth pulled slow at one corner.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “That does sound like a rough night for you.”

But the line stayed warm. Too fond to count as a real tease.

Then she gave him the thing about no quality control, and he actually laughed.

Not loudly. Just enough to break across his face and settle there.

“I noticed,” he said. “And for the record, I’m very pro unedited.”

A beat.

“You should know that before you try blaming me for it later.”

That part he gave her with a little more shape in his grin, but there was something real underneath it all the same. He did like this. The straight line from her thoughts to her mouth without all the usual checkpoints in between. The way she said whatever landed and then just let it be hers.

It felt like trust. Messy, uncurated trust. And Cameron was not taking that lightly, even while he smiled about it.

When she said she’d just keep doing it, his brows lifted the slightest bit, and for one second he looked so openly pleased by that he couldn’t even help himself.

“Please do,” he said.

Quick. Immediate. Almost too easy.

Then he caught himself and huffed a quiet laugh, like maybe he knew how eager that had sounded and had decided not to care.

“Sorry,” he added, though he didn’t sound sorry at all. “That came out fast.”

It had. And they both knew why.

Because he liked this. Liked her like this. Liked that she was no longer treating every honest thing like a live wire she had to handle with gloves on.

Then the dessert menu arrived between them, and Cameron let the air shift with it. Not away from what they’d just said. Just easier. Lighter. Enough that the night could keep breathing instead of tipping too hard into its own gravity.

He watched her read this time—really read—and the longer she scanned the options, the more the smile at the edge of his mouth grew.

Because he could already see it happening.

Not the choice. The resistance to making one.

And sure enough, by the time she started walking herself through the logic of each dessert, Cameron had set his glass down and gone fully still with amusement, just listening. Letting her talk herself into exactly what he’d suspected she wanted all along.

When she finished and admitted she wanted multiple things, his grin came easy.

“There she is,” he murmured, like he’d been waiting for her to say it.

Not in a mocking way. In a pleased one.

Like the truth had shown up exactly when he thought it would.

He leaned back into the booth, still relaxed, still holding the edge of the moment with just enough confidence to make it feel safe instead of slick.

“So what I’m hearing,” he said, “is that reasonable was never really in the running.”

His eyes stayed on hers when he said it.

Warm. A little flirty. Entirely too entertained by her.

“And no,” he added, before she could decide she needed to defend herself from that, “I do not mind.”

That one came softer.

He let it land before he kept going.

“Not even a little.”

Because he didn’t. Didn’t mind the options. Didn’t mind the appetite. Didn’t mind the fact that her instinct was never to flatten herself into one tidy, efficient choice if she didn’t actually want one.

If anything, he liked it.

More than liked it.

“I think your dessert judgment says you know exactly what sounds good, and you don’t see any reason to pretend otherwise just because somebody handed you a menu with boundaries on it.”

His mouth curved again.

“That feels pretty on brand.”

Then he tipped his head, studying her over the candlelight like he was genuinely taking the question apart instead of just flirting around it.

“And maybe,” he added, quieter now, “it says you like having room.”

A small pause.

“To want more than one thing. To not lock yourself into an answer too early. To leave yourself some space.”

That wasn’t a criticism. Didn’t sound like one either.

If anything, there was admiration in it.

Because he got that. Because he knew what it was to want room around something good instead of being made to pin it down too fast.

Cameron reached for the dessert menu with his free hand and glanced over it like he was now treating the whole thing as an official negotiation.

“Okay,” he said after a second, “here’s my professional opinion.”

That got the humor back where he wanted it.

“We get the crème brûlée, because you’re right, it’s earned its reputation. We get the butter cake, because clearly that one’s the troublemaker. And we let the chocolate torte remain mysterious for now because you’ve already assigned it a whole emotional arc and I don’t know if it can survive the pressure.”

He set the menu down again, satisfied with himself.

“That’s a strong system.”

A beat.

“Flexible. Curious. Slightly reckless. I respect it.”

Then his eyes flicked back up to hers, and the grin softened into something lower and warmer.

“And if you decide halfway through that you want a bite of something you didn’t commit to,” he said, “that also seems pretty fine to me.”

The line sat between them with more than dessert tucked inside it, and he knew she’d hear that. Knew she was too sharp not to.

He let her.

Didn’t crowd it. Didn’t explain it.

Just held her gaze and stayed there.

Then he signaled the server over with a quiet confidence that made it clear he had no intention of making her choose between the things she wanted just because a menu implied she should.

When the server arrived, Cameron ordered all three with the kind of calm certainty that suggested he did this all the time, even though they both knew he was enjoying himself far too much for that to be true.

Once they were alone again, he looked back at her and said, “There. Crisis managed.”

His brows lifted.

“You’re welcome.”

And that got him right back where he wanted them—warm, easy, just a little ridiculous, but with all the deeper things still alive underneath it.

He picked up his drink again, took a slow sip, then looked at her over the rim and smiled.

“You know what I think?” he said.

He lowered the glass.

“I think I like you best when you stop trying to be reasonable on purpose.”

That one he gave her without flinching.

Not because he wanted to corner her. Because it was true.

“The dangerous decisions,” he added, “the extra dessert, the hand across the table, the whole not-filtering-anything thing.”

His mouth tipped.

“Big fan.”

Then, because he wasn’t interested in leaving her sitting under that too long without air, he leaned back again and let the ease return.

“But I will say,” he added, “if this is how you order dessert, I’m gonna need to pace myself. You are expensive in a very specific way.”

The joke landed exactly where he wanted it to—light, affectionate, impossible to mistake for anything but appreciation.

And when he looked at her again after that, the expression on his face was open in that steady, romantic way she kept pulling out of him now.

No past in it. No old wound. No shadow of what they’d been before.

Just him. Now. At a candlelit table with Lucy Corbett, ordering too much dessert and enjoying the fact that she’d stopped pretending she only wanted one thing.

He smiled, slow and certain.

“I’m not complaining,” he said.

Lucille Corbett

04-15-2026, 09:26 PM

Lucy felt it—every bit of it.

The way he said good, like it wasn’t a question.
The way he didn’t flinch.
The way he wanted the unfiltered version of her instead of tolerating it.

It didn’t make her louder.

It made her softer.

Her fingers stayed in his, shifting just slightly when his thumb brushed over her knuckles again, like she was settling into it instead of reacting to it. Her gaze dipped for a second, a small breath leaving her before she looked back up at him, something quieter sitting in her eyes now.

“Okay,” she said again, but softer this time. More certain.

Not testing it anymore.

When he said he was pro unedited, that small smile tugged at her mouth again—warmer now, less guarded, like she wasn’t trying to manage how much she was giving him.

“Yeah, well…” she murmured, her thumb brushing lightly along his hand again, “you’re getting a lot of it.”

A tiny pause.

“You asked for it.”

There was the faintest hint of teasing in it, but it didn’t hide anything.

When he told her to keep doing it—quick, easy, like it just came out—her brows lifted slightly, and she let out a quiet breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

“That was fast,” she pointed out gently, her voice soft but amused.

But she didn’t make him take it back.

If anything, she leaned into it.

“I will,” she added, quieter. “Keep doing it.”

Simple. Honest.

Like she meant it.

Her attention shifted down to the menu again, but it didn’t stay there long. Not really. She felt him watching her, could tell he already knew where she was going with it, and by the time she admitted she didn’t want to choose just one, she was already smiling a little more openly.

And when he said there she is, something in her chest warmed in a way she didn’t try to hide.

“You make it sound like I’ve been hiding,” she murmured, glancing up at him.

But there was no edge to it.

Just a quiet awareness that… maybe she had been.

A little.

Her fingers tapped lightly against the table before settling again, closer to his this time without fully reaching.

When he said reasonable was never in the running, she huffed a soft laugh under her breath, shaking her head just slightly.

“Not tonight,” she admitted.

And she didn’t apologize for it.

Her gaze stayed on his as he talked through what it said about her—about wanting more than one thing, about leaving room—and something in her expression shifted again.

Slower.

More thoughtful.

“You’re… annoyingly good at that,” she said quietly.

A beat.

“Figuring things out like that.”

But there was no discomfort in it.

Just a kind of soft recognition.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

And when he laid out the dessert plan—easy, confident, like it was obvious she shouldn’t have to pick—Lucy just watched him for a second, her mouth curving into something softer, almost fond.

“Wow,” she murmured. “Look at you.”

Her head tilted slightly.

“Supporting bad decisions in real time.”

There was a warmth in it that didn’t need to be dressed up.

And when he ordered all three without hesitation, she let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head again—but she didn’t stop him.

Didn’t try to rein it in.

She liked it.

Liked that he didn’t make her shrink it down.

When he said crisis managed, she smiled—soft, easy—and lifted her glass, taking a small sip before setting it back down.

“Thank you,” she said lightly. “I feel very taken care of.”

But the way she said it—quieter, a little more sincere—meant something.

Her fingers drifted back toward his again, brushing lightly before settling against his hand for just a second, like she couldn’t quite help it.

When he said he liked her best like this, her gaze lifted fully to his again, something softer settling deeper.

“Yeah?” she asked quietly.

Not doubting.

Just… taking it in.

Her lips curved faintly.

“I think I like me better like this too.”

That one came out without overthinking.

And maybe that was the whole point.

When he teased her about being expensive, she huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head as she leaned back slightly in her chair.

“That’s not fair,” she murmured. “You literally just encouraged it.”

A small pause.

“But also… yeah.”

Her shoulders lifted in the smallest shrug, softer now, more relaxed than she’d been all night.

“I’m kind of… excited to be out,” she admitted.

That one was quieter.

More honest.

Her fingers toyed absently with the stem of her glass as she glanced down for a second, then back up at him.

“I don’t do this a lot,” she added. “Not like this.”

Her eyes flicked briefly around the room—the candlelight, the low music, the way everything felt a little slower here—before settling back on him.

“So I don’t really mind splurging a little.”

A faint smile pulled at her mouth.

“And whatever we don’t finish…” she trailed off, her eyes flicking to his for just a second longer than necessary, something a little more playful slipping back in.

“…we can deal with later.”

She didn’t spell it out.

Didn’t need to.

Her expression softened again almost immediately after, like she was aware of the line she’d just brushed but wasn’t trying to take it back either.

Just letting it exist.

Her fingers shifted again, brushing his once more before settling still, her voice quieter when she added—

“I’m just… having a good time.”

And that, more than anything else she’d said all night, felt like the truth she wasn’t trying to shape into anything else.

Cameron Tate

04-16-2026, 05:39 PM

Cameron felt that one the second she said it.

Not the playful line about dealing with what was left later—though that absolutely landed and did a very specific kind of damage all on its own.

Not even the part about splurging, or the quiet little confession that she didn’t do this much.

It was the last thing.

The plainest thing.

She was having a good time.

And for a second, he just looked at her.

Really looked.

At the way her fingers kept finding his without quite meaning to. At the softness that had settled into her face and stayed. At the fact that she wasn’t armoring up around any of it tonight—not the restaurant, not the food, not him looking at her like this across the table.

Something warm and steady moved through his chest.

The kind that didn’t need showing off.

His mouth curved first, slower this time, and when he answered her his voice came out lower than before. Easier. Like he wasn’t trying to be clever about it.

“Good,” he said.

Just that at first.

Then he let out a soft breath through his nose, the corner of his mouth lifting a little more. “That’s kind of the whole win for me.”

He meant it.

Not pulling off the place. Not getting the order right. Not managing to keep up with her when she decided to get dangerous with a fork and a low voice and those little lines that sounded casual until they hit him three seconds later.

This.

Her having a good time. Her sitting here, candlelight on her glass and her shoulders loose and her eyes warm, telling him the truth without needing to sand the edges off it first.

That was the part he’d wanted.

Cameron leaned back slightly in the booth, one arm stretched easy along the seat, the other hand still close enough to hers that one inch would close the distance again. His gaze slipped once to her mouth when she mentioned dealing with the leftovers later, then back up to her eyes with a look that made it very clear he had, in fact, heard exactly what she meant by it.

“Yeah?” he said, warmer now. “That sounds like a solid plan.”

A beat.

“I’m very committed to follow-through.”

That got the flirt back in where he wanted it—low, confident, easy enough not to push too hard. Just enough to let her know he’d caught the line and liked it maybe a little too much.

But when he kept going, the warmth underneath it stayed.

“And for the record,” he said, “I like taking care of you.”

That one came out simple too. No polish. No big setup.

He watched her face when he said it, not because he was trying to corner her, but because he wanted her to hear it in the exact spirit he meant it.

Not possession. Not obligation.

Just pleasure.

“Not in a weird, overbearing way,” he added, because she was still Lucy and he knew better than to leave a statement like that sitting there too tidy. “I just like that I get to.”

His thumb dragged once, absentmindedly, along the stem of his glass.

“The drive. Dinner. Too many desserts. You look pretty happy over there.” His mouth tipped. “That does something for me.”

There.

Clean enough to be honest. Easy enough not to make the room tip too far into itself.

When she’d said she liked herself better like this, that had stayed with him too. Maybe more than anything else.

He let that thought live in his face for a second before he said, quieter now, “I get that.”

His eyes held hers.

“The way you are tonight.” A tiny pause. “I get why you’d like her.”

That wasn’t about appearance. Wasn’t about the dress or the candlelight or the way everyone looked a little better in rooms like this.

It was about the way she was sitting in the evening. About the lack of apology. The lack of tension. The ease that kept slipping in and deciding to stay.

And because he was still himself—still a little funny even when he meant things hard—he added, “She’s got excellent taste in entrées and a dangerous relationship with dessert.”

The smile came back into it then, softer around the edges.

“And she’s great company.”

That part he let land more plainly.

The server drifted past another table with a tray of cocktails, and for a second the room shifted around them again—low voices, warm glass, soft music overhead—but Cameron barely noticed any of it.

He was too busy watching the way her fingers moved around the stem of her glass when she was thinking. Too busy liking the fact that she wasn’t trying to fill every silence anymore.

It made him bolder. Not recklessly. Just enough.

“So splurge,” he said after a moment. “Order the extra dessert. Keep stealing my food. Stay out later than you meant to.” His brows lifted slightly. “I’m not gonna be the one telling you to be reasonable.”

That one drew a grin out of him because it was so clearly true.

Not tonight. Not here. Not when this whole date felt like it had gotten good exactly because neither one of them was trying too hard to keep it contained.

And because she’d given him that line about later and just let it sit there like a small lit match between them, he let himself go one half-step further.

“Honestly,” he said, voice dropping a little, “the fact that you’re already thinking ahead to later is doing a real number on my ability to act normal.”

He held her eyes when he said it. Not hiding the smile. Not hiding the effect either.

That was the thing about him now. He could tell the truth without turning it into a performance.

And the truth was, the idea of the rest of the night still existing after this—of the drive back, of her place, of boxes and half-finished dessert and maybe her barefoot in the kitchen again with candlelight still living somewhere on her skin—was almost embarrassingly appealing.

He didn’t pile onto it. Didn’t crowd the image.

Just let it warm the words enough that she’d hear it.

Then he eased it back with a small shake of his head, like he was reining himself in on purpose.

“You saying you’re excited to be out, though…” His gaze softened. “I like that.”

He meant that too.

Not because it was novel. Because it was hers.

“You should have nights you’re looking forward to.” A small pause. “Nights that feel worth putting on real clothes for.”

His mouth pulled slightly at one corner.

“And nights where somebody drives you somewhere with good lighting and solid bread and lets you order too much.”

That got the air moving again exactly the way he wanted.

Romantic, yes. But breathing. Still them.

He reached for his drink, took a slow sip, then set it back down and looked at her over the rim of the glass like he’d only just thought of something.

“And just so we’re clear,” he said, “I’m not judging the splurge.”

A beat.

“I’m enjoying it.”

His fingers drifted back toward hers on the table, not claiming, just close enough to make it easy if she wanted to bridge it again.

Because that was what tonight had become, wasn’t it?

Not guessing. Not forcing. Just leaving little doorways open and watching the other one walk through them.

Cameron tilted his head, the smile in his face smaller now but somehow more intimate because of it.

“And if you’re having a good time,” he said, “I’m probably having a better one.”

That one he gave her without disguise.

No joke fast enough to blunt it. No easy shrug.

Just confidence, flirtation, and something gentler all wound together.

Then his gaze dropped to the dessert menu and back to her, and the warmth in him turned playful again.

“So,” he murmured, “now that we’ve established you’re not interested in being reasonable, I think the only responsible thing left to do is decide which dessert gets first bite.”

His brows lifted.

“And before you answer, just know I’m prepared to argue my case very persuasively.”

Lucille Corbett

04-16-2026, 06:21 PM

Lucy let his words settle without rushing to meet them.

Not because she didn’t have something to say—but because for once, her brain wasn’t sprinting ahead trying to manage the moment. It just… stayed where she was. At the table. With him. With the soft clink of glasses somewhere behind his shoulder and the low piano drifting through the room.

Her thumb traced idly along the edge of her fork, catching a bit of candlelight on the metal before she glanced back up at him.

“You’re talking a lot,” she said softly.

There was no edge to it. If anything, there was something quietly fond in the way she said it—like she was noticing, not calling him out.

A small pause.

“I like it,” she added, just as simply.

She didn’t dress it up more than that.

Her gaze dropped back to the dessert, and she tapped the spoon lightly against the brûlée again, cracking a different corner this time like she was testing whether it would sound the same. It didn’t. She noticed that, too.

Weird what her brain picked up when it wasn’t busy overthinking.

She took a bite, slower this time, letting it sit for a second before she swallowed, her shoulders easing just a little more into the booth.

“Okay, that’s actually unfair,” she murmured, half to herself. “I get why people talk about it.”

She shifted one leg slightly under the table, her foot brushing against his ankle for a second before she stilled—then didn’t fully move it away, just let it rest close enough that it could happen again without effort.

Her eyes flicked back up to him.

“You did good,” she said.

No teasing this time. No half-credit.

Just that.

She watched his face for a second after—really watched, like she was letting herself take in the way he reacted to things instead of immediately deciding what it meant.

It felt… easier that way.

Her fingers curled loosely around her glass, but she didn’t lift it. Just let the cool condensation press against her fingertips while she studied him with that same quiet focus.

“Also,” she added after a second, her mouth curving slightly, “you’re a little too sure there’s a next one.”

A beat.

“But I’m not exactly arguing with you.”

That came softer.

Honest in a way that didn’t feel like a big reveal—just something she wasn’t bothering to hide.

She glanced down again, cutting another small piece of dessert without really needing it, more something to do with her hands than anything else. The spoon scraped lightly against the plate, and she absently dragged the edge of it through the melted sugar like she was tracing shapes she wasn’t fully paying attention to.

Then, almost like the thought had been sitting there for a minute—

Lucy shifted.

Not hesitantly this time.

She slid further into the booth in one smooth motion, tucking herself toward the wall and leaving a clear space beside her. The cushion dipped slightly as she moved, the fabric catching softly against her dress.

Her hand brushed his again on the way back, lingering just a second longer than before—intentional, but still easy.

She picked up her glass, took a small sip, then set it back down with a quiet tap.

“You can come sit over here,” she said, like it wasn’t a big deal.

But her fingers rested lightly against the seat next to her when she said it, absentmindedly smoothing the fabric once like she was making space without thinking about it too hard.

Her gaze lifted back to his, softer now.

A little more certain.

Like she’d already decided she wanted him closer—and was just giving him the option to catch up to it.

Cameron Tate

04-16-2026, 07:46 PM

Cameron’s mouth curved the second she said it.

You’re talking a lot.

Not because he felt caught. Because she sounded like she was noticing something she liked and hadn’t decided to be embarrassed about yet.

That got him worse.

Especially when she followed it with that simple little I like it and just… left it there. No joke. No fast cover over the top of it. Just Lucy, in candlelight, telling him the truth like it had finally gotten easier to do.

He leaned back in the booth a fraction, looking at her with that warm, helpless kind of smile she kept dragging out of him tonight.

“Yeah?” he said softly. “Good.”

A beat.

“Because I’m havin’ a hard time shutting up around you tonight.”

The line came easy, low, lightly flirty—but there was too much truth in it to hide behind the joke for long. She kept giving him things to answer. Kept softening and reaching and saying quiet, honest little things that made it impossible for him to want to be cool instead of real.

Then she told him he’d done good.

No half-credit. No teasing edge. Just that.

And Cameron felt that land straight in the middle of him.

He looked at her for a second longer than he meant to, his fingers loose around the stem of his glass, expression gone quieter at the edges.

“Okay,” he said, voice lower now. “That one’s gonna stick with me.”

Because it would.

Not the steak. Not the dessert. Her saying it like that. Calm and direct and meaning it.

Then came the next one.

Not exactly arguing with him.

That pulled a slower smile out of him—one that settled instead of flashed. Something pleased, yes, but steadier than that. More certain.

“I know,” he said.

Simple. Confident. Not cocky.

He didn’t rush to dress it up more than that. Didn’t make her pay for giving him the truth cleanly. He just let her see that he heard it, believed it, and liked the sound of it maybe a little too much.

And then she moved.

That one got him all over again.

Not because of the seat itself. Because of the ease of it.

The way she slid over and made room beside her like it was the most natural thing in the world to want him there. The little brush of her hand. The absentminded smoothing of the fabric beside her. The look she gave him after—soft, sure, already decided.

Cameron didn’t answer right away.

He just looked at the space beside her, then back at her face, and the grin that started in his mouth came slow and warm.

“You say that like I was gonna think about it,” he murmured.

He set his glass down, pushed out of his side of the booth, and came around without any performance to it—no dragging it out, no pretending he wasn’t affected. If anything, the speed of it gave him away. He wanted closer, and apparently they were done pretending otherwise.

By the time he slid in beside her, the whole table felt different.

Smaller. Warmer. A little more dangerous in exactly the right way.

His thigh brushed hers first. Then his shoulder. Then the side of his arm as he settled in and angled slightly toward her instead of the table.

He looked down at her, close enough now to catch the softer details he’d been missing from across the candlelight—the faint flush still sitting in her cheeks, the way her lashes cast a little shadow when she glanced down, the exact shape of her mouth when she was trying not to smile too much.

“Much better,” he said quietly.

That one slipped out before he could help it.

Not because the old seat had been bad. Because this felt right immediately in a way that almost annoyed him for how easy it was.

He eased an arm along the back of the booth behind her—not draped over her, not presumptuous, just there. An open line. Space for her if she wanted it. His knee stayed angled toward hers beneath the table, and the little nearness of everything made the candle and plates and glasses feel almost incidental now.

Cameron glanced down at the dessert between them, then back at her.

“So,” he said, voice low and easy, “is this where I’m supposed to act normal while you keep feeding me impossible standards and excellent cake?”

His mouth tipped.

“Because I should be honest—I think that ship’s sailed.”

He picked up the dessert spoon, but instead of immediately taking a bite himself, he cut into the brûlée and lifted it toward her first, turning just enough in his seat that the gesture felt private even in the open room around them.

“Open,” he said softly.

The confidence in it wasn’t pushy. Just natural. Like of course he was going to feed her a bite now that they were sitting shoulder to shoulder and sharing dessert like two people who had forgotten the point of pretending to keep things separate.

When she took it, Cameron’s eyes stayed on her face, watching the way she reacted, watching the tiny shifts in her expression, and the satisfaction that moved through him at being this close to it made his grin deepen.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Still worth it.”

Then he took the next bite for himself, slower now, leaning back just enough to keep the mood easy, but not enough to put any real distance back between them.

“You know what I like about this?” he asked after swallowing.

He didn’t wait long before answering himself.

“The part where you keep deciding you want me closer and then acting like it’s not a big deal.”

His brows lifted just slightly, amused and warm.

“Very convincing.”

There was no accusation in it. Only fondness. Only the quiet thrill of being wanted in these small, undeniable ways and getting to watch her choose them one after another.

He let the spoon rest against the plate, his attention slipping briefly from the dessert to the line of her hand beside it, to the shape of her resting against the booth now that he was next to her instead of across from her.

Then his voice dropped a little lower.

“For the record, I like having you over there.” A tiny pause. “But I like this more.”

That sat between them for a beat, lit gold by the candle and warmed by the hush of the room.

Cameron turned his head just enough to look at her fully, and the confidence in him softened into something more openly romantic without losing itself.

“And since apparently we’re making choices tonight,” he said, “I’m gonna go ahead and say I’m very in favor of whatever this is.”

Not because he needed to name it right now. Because he liked it. Because he wanted her to know that without forcing it into anything bigger than what it already was.

He reached for the side of her glass, turning it a fraction where it sat near her hand, then let his fingers brush lightly over hers on the way back.

“You, me, too much dessert, one side of the booth.” His mouth curved. “Strong system.”

Then, because he couldn’t leave it there without pulling some air back into the moment, he nodded once toward the plate between them.

“Now tell me the truth,” he said. “Did you pull me over here because you wanted me closer…”

A beat.

“…or because it’s easier to steal my share of dessert from this angle?”

The look he gave her after that made it pretty clear he knew the answer he was hoping for.

Lucille Corbett

04-16-2026, 08:10 PM

Lucy felt the shift the second he slid in beside her.

It wasn’t just the closeness—it was how quickly it settled. Like there hadn’t actually been any question about it. Like this had been where they were heading all night and they’d finally stopped pretending otherwise.

Her shoulder brushed his, her knee angled naturally against his under the table, and for a second she just… sat there in it.

Letting herself feel it.

The warmth. The nearness. The way everything else in the room softened out a little around the edges.

When he said much better, her mouth curved faintly, but she didn’t look at him right away. She kept her gaze on the dessert for a second, dragging the spoon lightly through the brûlée again, like she needed something small and steady to hold onto before she looked back up.

But when she did—

he was right there.

Closer than before. Easier to read. Harder to ignore.

“You’re not even trying to act normal,” she murmured, softer now, her voice matching the smaller space between them.

Not a complaint.

Just noticing.

When he fed her the bite, she didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t make it a thing.

She leaned in just enough, took it from the spoon, her eyes flicking up to his for half a second in the middle of it—quick, quiet, a little charged—and then sat back again, slower this time.

“Still good,” she said, but her tone had shifted. Lower. Warmer.

More aware.

And when he called her out—wanting him closer—that’s what did it.

Lucy turned her head slightly toward him, studying his face for a second like she was deciding something.

Then she smiled.

Small.

Certain.

“I did,” she said simply.

No deflection. No teasing dodge this time.

Her hand came up, fingers brushing lightly along the edge of his jaw—not lingering, just enough to anchor the movement—

“Wanted you closer,” she added, softer now.

A beat.

“So I could do this.”

And then she leaned in.

The kiss wasn’t quick this time.

It was slower, deeper—still soft, still careful, but with intention behind it. Her hand stayed light against his face for a second, her body angled toward his without hesitation now, like she wasn’t second-guessing whether she was allowed to want this.

Allowed to show it.

It lasted just long enough to shift the air between them again before she pulled back.

Not abruptly.

Not awkwardly.

Just… like she’d meant to do it, and that was enough.

Lucy settled back against the booth like nothing dramatic had happened, though there was a faint flush sitting warmer in her cheeks now.

She picked up her fork again, dragging it through the chocolate torte this time, cutting a small piece without rushing.

“I think this one might be better,” she murmured, half-focused on the plate, like she was grounding herself again through something simple.

She took a bite, thoughtful, then gave a small nod to herself.

“Yeah. That’s dangerous.”

When she looked back at him, there was the slightest smudge of chocolate at the edge of her top lip—barely there, something she clearly hadn’t noticed.

Her mouth curved again, softer now.

Then she cut another small piece, lifting it toward him the same way he had earlier.

“Your turn,” she said quietly.

The fork hovered between them, her wrist relaxed, her eyes on his again—warmer, a little more open than before.

Like the kiss hadn’t changed anything—

and had also changed everything just enough.

Cameron Tate

04-16-2026, 09:22 PM

Cameron forgot the restaurant again.

Not completely.

Just enough that the low music and the candlelight and the quiet clink of glass somewhere behind them all slipped a little farther out while Lucy sat beside him with that faint flush in her cheeks and the taste of her still warm in his mouth.

She had said it plain.

Wanted you closer.

And then she had kissed him like she wasn’t borrowing the moment anymore—like she had every intention of standing in it fully and letting him feel exactly what she meant.

That alone would have been enough to wreck him.

Then she went and offered him dessert off her fork with a little smear of chocolate still at the edge of her mouth like she had no idea what she was doing to him.

Which was either wildly unfair or deeply strategic.

He hadn’t decided yet.

Cameron’s eyes dropped to the fork for half a second, then lifted back to her face, and the look in his eyes was so openly warm it almost tipped into disbelief again before he caught it.

Almost.

He leaned in and took the bite slowly, deliberate enough that the moment didn’t get lost in the motion. Not overplayed. Just intimate in that quiet, ridiculous way feeding each other dessert in a dark booth had apparently become for them.

He sat back again, chewing, his gaze still on her.

And then his mouth tipped.

“Yeah,” he said, voice lower now. “That’s trouble.”

The torte. The kiss. Her. All of it.

He let the line sit exactly where it wanted to.

Then his eyes caught on the tiny smudge near her top lip, and something in his expression shifted—softened, focused, just this side of too intent.

He reached for her before he said anything, thumb brushing lightly at the corner of her mouth.

“There,” he murmured, almost absentmindedly.

The touch was gentle. Unhurried. Not the kind that called attention to itself unless you were already paying very close attention.

He was.

And once his thumb came away marked faintly with chocolate, Cameron glanced at it, then back at her, the slow grin returning to his mouth.

“That would’ve driven me insane,” he said.

There was enough humor in it to keep the air from going too tight, but the honesty sat underneath it cleanly. He could not have ignored it. Not when she was this close. Not when he was already operating on a very limited supply of self-control.

He should’ve grabbed a napkin.

He knew that.

Instead, because apparently tonight had become a long series of bad decisions he was enjoying immensely, he tipped his head and kissed the corner of her mouth where the smudge had been.

Just once. Warm. Soft. Brief enough to keep it from becoming a scene.

But not so brief that she could mistake what it was.

When he pulled back, he stayed close enough for a second that the smile in his face looked less like amusement and more like he was still slightly undone by her.

“You’re making it real hard to act like I’ve got any sense in public,” he said quietly.

That got the flirt back in where he wanted it—low and easy—but it didn’t blur the truth of it. She had him. Fully. More every minute. And Cameron was done pretending that didn’t feel as good as it did.

He took another sip of his drink, more for something to do than because he needed it, then set the glass down and looked at the desserts between them like he was trying very hard to recover some version of dignity.

“Okay,” he said. “Official update.”

He nodded once toward the torte.

“You were right. That one’s dangerous.”

A beat.

“The butter cake’s still got a strong case, though. I’m not demoting it just because the chocolate came in hot late.”

His brows lifted faintly, and the line came out with enough false seriousness to make it breathe again.

“Would be unfair to the field.”

He picked up the fork and cut another small piece of the torte, but instead of taking it himself, he turned toward her a little more in the booth and held it out.

“Try it again,” he said. “I need to confirm whether you’re right twice or if I’m just impressionable when you kiss me first.”

The grin that followed made it clear he already knew the answer.

Still, he held the fork steady between them, watching her with that same impossible mix of ease and attention that seemed to come naturally to him now whenever she gave him anything real.

And when she took it, Cameron’s gaze stayed on her face the way it had before—not because he was trying to trap the moment, but because he genuinely liked seeing exactly what pleasure looked like when it crossed her features before she bothered to hide it.

That part got him every time too.

“Yeah,” he said softly after a second. “No, that’s really good.”

He set the fork down and shifted a little closer still, not enough to crowd her, just enough that his knee pressed more solidly against hers under the table and the line of his shoulder stayed warm against hers when he settled back.

The whole booth felt smaller now. More private. Like the restaurant had faded into background and left them with their own little pocket of night.

Cameron turned his head slightly toward her, his voice dropping into something quieter, more intimate without losing the smile entirely.

“You know what I like about tonight?” he asked.

He didn’t wait long enough for her to answer.

“The fact that nothing about it feels like work.”

That came out simple. True.

“No weird performance. No trying to guess the right thing to say every five seconds.” His mouth curved a little. “No strategic pretending I’m not very into sitting here with you while you feed me dessert and keep kissing me like you’ve already decided I’m worth the trouble.”

There it was again—that blend of confidence and honesty she seemed to keep pulling out of him now. He wasn’t overselling it. He was just saying it exactly the way it felt.

He glanced down at the plate, then back up at her.

“And for the record,” he added, “if this is what happens when you get me closer, I’m not seeing a downside yet.”

That line he let warm the space between them for half a beat before easing the pressure off it with a softer grin.

“Maybe to my concentration. But I think I can live with that.”

He rested an elbow lightly against the edge of the table and tipped his head, studying her in that open, unhurried way of his.

“What’s your actual ranking now?” he asked. “Desserts, not me. Be careful.”

A tiny pause.

“I’m feeling fragile.”

The smile he gave her after that ruined any chance of the line sounding serious.

He knew exactly how gone he already looked. He just didn’t seem all that interested in hiding it anymore.

And as the candlelight moved low between them, catching the edge of her glass and the softened line of her mouth, Cameron found himself thinking that he could stay like this a long time—close in the booth, shoulder to shoulder, sharing bites, saying too much and not enough all at once.

Not because he was trying to make the night into something bigger than it was.

Because it already was.

Lucille Corbett

04-17-2026, 07:20 PM

Lucy’s lips curved the second he said trouble, like she’d been expecting that exact answer and was a little too pleased about it.

“Good,” she murmured, softer, almost to herself.

She didn’t pull away when he reached for her—didn’t even flinch when his thumb brushed her lip. If anything, her head tilted just slightly into the touch without thinking about it, her eyes staying on his like she was letting herself feel it all the way through instead of skipping past it.

“That would’ve been distracting,” she added, voice low, a quiet tease tucked into it.

When he kissed the corner of her mouth, her breath hitched—quick, small, gone almost as fast as it came—but it lingered in the way her fingers curled lightly against the edge of the seat.

She didn’t say anything right away.

Just looked at him.

Really looked.

Then the corner of her mouth lifted again, softer this time.

“You’re not doing a great job pretending you have any sense,” she said quietly, not unkindly. Not even teasing, really. Just… noticing.

When he offered her another bite, she leaned in without hesitation, her shoulder pressing into his a little more as she took it.

She chewed, thoughtful, eyes drifting down to the plate for a second before flicking back up.

“Still first,” she decided, simple and sure. “It knows what it’s doing.”

Her hand moved without much thought, brushing lightly against his wrist as she set the fork down again—fingers lingering for half a second before pulling back.

When he talked about tonight, about it being easy, she felt that settle somewhere deeper.

Her expression shifted—not heavy, just quieter.

“I didn’t realize how tired I was of… trying to get it right all the time,” she admitted, almost under her breath.

Her thumb traced a faint circle in the condensation near her glass, then stopped.

“This is better.”

A small pause.

“You’re better.”

That slipped out before she could second-guess it, and instead of taking it back, she just let it sit there.

Then his question pulled a soft breath of a laugh out of her.

“Okay,” she said, glancing back down at the desserts like she was genuinely considering it. “Torte’s still winning. Butter cake’s… dangerous in a different way.”

Her head tipped slightly toward him.

“Brûlée’s reliable. Which is nice, but—” she shrugged lightly “—not what I’m in the mood for tonight.”

That last part came quieter, more layered than it sounded.

She shifted then—subtle, but intentional.

Her leg crossed over the other beneath the table, her body angling more into his, shoulder settling fully against his now. Not brushing. Not accidental.

There.

Her gaze moved back to his, holding for a second longer than it needed to.

Something in it steadier now.

Decided.

Her voice dropped, barely above a breath.

“I’m gonna kiss you again.”

And then she did.

No hesitation.

Her hand found his arm again, fingers curling slightly as she leaned in, closing the space between them like she already knew exactly how this felt and wanted it anyway.

The kiss was slower this time. More certain. Not searching—just there, warm and deliberate and a little deeper than before.

When she pulled back, she didn’t go far.

Still close enough that her breath brushed his, her eyes lingering on his like she was letting the moment land fully before moving on.

A faint smile touched her mouth.

Then she leaned in again, closer to his ear this time, voice quieter—steady in a different way now.

“We should probably get the check.”

Cameron Tate

04-17-2026, 09:43 PM

That hit him harder than the kiss.

Not because the kiss didn’t matter. Jesus, it did.

But better—

that one landed clean.

It didn’t hit him in the ego. Didn’t puff him up or make him feel clever or lucky in some shallow, chest-out kind of way.

It hit him somewhere quieter than that.

Because she hadn’t meant the steak. Hadn’t meant the restaurant. Hadn’t even meant the date, not really.

She’d meant him.

Cameron looked at her for a second after she said it, and whatever easy line he might’ve reached for just… didn’t show up. The grin on his mouth softened. His whole face did.

“That,” he said finally, voice low and a little rougher than before, “is gonna stick.”

He didn’t dress it up. Didn’t laugh it off. Didn’t make her rescue him from meaning it.

Then she kept talking—about the desserts, about what was winning, about what wasn’t doing it for her tonight—and Cameron really did try to follow along. He caught most of it. Enough to know the chocolate was still in first place and the brûlée had somehow fallen into respectable third.

But whatever subtle point she was making under that last part never stood a chance.

Not once she shifted.

It was small. Smooth. Intentional enough to feel it.

One second she was seated beside him, shoulders brushing, all warm nearness and low conversation.

The next, she angled more fully in—leg crossing beneath the table, hip turning, body settling into him instead of just next to him—and Cameron’s attention dropped before he could help it.

Just briefly.

To the curve of her where she shifted on the booth. To the way her dress moved with it. To the quiet, devastating confidence of a woman who knew exactly where she wanted to be and wasn’t pretending otherwise anymore.

That did him in all over again.

His eyes came back up slower than they should have, and by the time they found her face, she was already looking at him like she’d decided something.

Then she told him she was going to kiss him.

And Cameron’s mouth tipped, warm and gone in the same second.

“Yeah?” was all he managed, barely there.

Then she kissed him.

He turned into it immediately.

No hesitation. No trying to play cool through it.

His hand came up to her waist on instinct, steady and warm there as he kissed her back—slower than the first one across the table, deeper than the second, all of the easy confidence in him melting down into something simpler: wanting her, right here, and not seeing any point in pretending otherwise.

She tasted like espresso and sugar and that dangerous kind of certainty she kept giving him tonight in small, impossible doses.

And God, Cameron kissed her like a man trying to stay just this side of decent in a room full of other people and only barely managing it.

When she pulled back, he didn’t chase.

Not because he didn’t want to. Because she was still close enough that he could feel her breath and because whatever this was between them had become better when he let her lead it to the next inch instead of grabbing for the whole mile.

Then she leaned to his ear and whispered about the check.

That, he caught.

Perfectly.

And the effect of it moved through him low and immediate, because it didn’t sound like I’m done.

It sounded like take the rest of this somewhere else.

Somewhere without candlelit witnesses and polished silverware and a waiter who kept appearing every time she looked too good and he forgot how public space worked.

Cameron let out a small breath through his nose—something between a laugh and a surrender—and turned his head just enough that his mouth brushed close to her temple when he answered.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Probably should.”

His hand stayed at her waist one extra second before he made himself move it.

Then he leaned back, still too close, still smiling in that slow, helpless way that made it clear he was not fooled by how casual either of them was trying to sound.

He caught the server’s eye with a small lift of his hand.

When they came over, Cameron didn’t look away from Lucy right off. He kept that warm glance on her for just a beat longer, then finally shifted enough to do the practical thing.

“Could we get the check?” he asked, voice easy again, though the low edge of it hadn’t gone anywhere. “And a couple boxes too.”

His eyes flicked down to the table.

“For the steak,” he added, “and the torte. We’re not leaving that behind.”

That got the logistics handled.

But the second the server left again, Cameron’s attention came right back to her like nothing else had ever really stood a chance.

He leaned in, forearm braced lightly against the table, body turned toward hers again, his expression still carrying the afterglow of the kiss and the weight of that one word she’d given him.

Better.

He shook his head a little, like he was still not over it.

“You really know how to wreck a guy over dessert.”

The line came warm, amused—but softer underneath it than the joke suggested.

His fingers found the edge of her hand on the seat between them and brushed lightly over her knuckles once, just enough to keep the contact alive without making a scene out of it.

“That thing you said,” he added, quieter now. “I heard you.”

No joke. No dodge.

Just that.

Then the smile came back, easier this time, because he was still Cameron and because staying too serious for too long with her always seemed to make the air go tight in a way neither of them actually wanted.

“So now I’ve got the check coming,” he said, glancing once toward the front of the room before looking back at her. “To-go cake. A very suspicious amount of momentum.”

His brows lifted.

“That feels promising.”

And because it did.

Not just the possibility of later—though he was absolutely thinking about that now in flashes he had no business enjoying as much as he was. Her place. His place. Boxes on a kitchen counter. Her barefoot somewhere close by. The night not being done just because dinner was.

But more than that, the fact that she wanted the night to keep going too.

That part sat lower. Better.

Cameron shifted a little closer again, enough that his knee pressed into hers under the table and stayed there, enough that his voice didn’t have to travel far when he said, low and easy:

“You know what I like about this?”

A beat.

“You didn’t ask for the check because you were ready to leave.”

His mouth curved.

“That’s a very important distinction to me.”

He let her have that, let it sit warm between them while the candle bent softly in the center of the table and the room went on around them, unaware.

Then, because he couldn’t resist one last line while the check was still somewhere on its way and she was sitting beside him looking like she had every intention of making the rest of the night dangerous too, Cameron smiled and said:

“Also, for the record, I’m very glad you wanted me closer.”

His gaze dipped briefly to her mouth, then back to her eyes.

“Turned out to be a great decision.”

Lucille Corbett

04-19-2026, 06:46 AM

Lucy felt the shift before she saw it—the quiet return of the room around them as the waiter approached, the soft interruption of reality slipping back in.

She didn’t move right away.

Not until the check and the small stack of boxes were set down between them, the low murmur of “whenever you’re ready” fading as quickly as it came.

Only then did she pull back just slightly.

Not far.

Just enough to let her shoulder slip from his for a second, enough to reach for her glass and take a small sip—more something to do than anything she actually needed.

Her fingers lingered on the stem for a second before she set it down again, her eyes already drifting back to him like they couldn’t quite help it.

There was a quiet pause.

The kind that didn’t feel awkward. Just… full.

Lucy glanced down at the boxes, then the check, then back up at him—and the faintest smile tugged at her mouth like she knew exactly what this moment was and wasn’t rushing through it.

“Very official,” she murmured lightly, tapping the edge of the check with her fingertip.

But her voice didn’t carry much humor this time.

Just softness.

She shifted again, turning toward him instead of the table, her knee brushing his once more as if that line of contact had already become something she defaulted to.

Her hand found his again without asking, fingers sliding into his a little more naturally this time—like it had stopped being a question somewhere along the way.

She looked at him for a second.

Really looked.

Like she was memorizing something small and unspoken.

Then she leaned in.

No warning this time.

Just a quiet decision.

Her hand tightened slightly in his as she closed the space between them again, her lips finding his in a softer kiss than the last—slower, lingering just a second longer than it needed to.

Not rushed. Not searching.

Just… there.

When she pulled back, she stayed close, her forehead almost brushing his for a second before she eased away just enough to look at him again.

Her smile was smaller now.

Warmer.

“Okay,” she said softly, like she was grounding herself back into the moment.

Then, with one last light squeeze of his hand, she finally shifted enough to reach for the check—her other hand moving to pull one of the boxes closer like she was halfway between practical and still very much not ready to fully separate from him.

But even then—

she didn’t let go right away.

The moment shifted the second the waiter stepped back in.

Not enough to break anything—but enough to remind her where they were.

Lucy eased away from him just slightly, the space between them returning in inches instead of all at once, like she wasn’t in any hurry to lose it completely.

Her shoulder slipped from his, but her leg still brushed his under the table, her body angled toward him like that part hadn’t changed.

Her attention dropped to the boxes the waiter had left behind, her fingers moving toward them almost absently—pulling one a little closer, lifting the lid just enough to peek inside like she needed something small and grounding to do with her hands.

“Important,” she murmured under her breath, a faint smile tugging at her mouth as she closed it again.

But her eyes didn’t stay there long.

They found him again.

Of course they did.

And for a second, she just looked at him—quiet, steady, something softer sitting in her expression now that the moment had stretched this far without breaking.

Her hand drifted back, brushing lightly against his where it rested near her before her fingers curled slightly, keeping that connection there without making it obvious.

She tilted her head just a fraction.

Then leaned in again.

No buildup. No teasing warning this time.

Just a soft, deliberate decision.

Her lips found his in another kiss—gentler than before, slower, like she was letting herself linger in it instead of rushing past it.

It lasted a second longer than it needed to.

Then another.

Before she finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, her hand still loosely holding onto his.

Her smile was quieter now.

Warmer.

Like she’d stopped trying to play it off at all.

“Okay,” she said softly, almost like she was reminding herself where they were again.

But she didn’t move away after.

Not really.