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.

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 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.”

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 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.”

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 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.”

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 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.”

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.