"So why is this song your favorite Dean Lewis song?" Michael asked, his voice softer now, almost careful.
The question hung between them, delicate yet persistent. The glow from the dashboard lit his face in shifting tones, making his expression unreadable, though Naomi could sense the curiosity behind it.She hesitated, her fingers curling slightly against the hem of her gown. Her lips parted as if to answer, but the words caught in her throat. "Hmmm," she hummed, buying herself a moment. Her eyes drifted to the blurred lights rushing past her window. "No exact reason though. I just… love the song. It's kinda became a part of me, since—"She stopped herself, biting the inside of her cheek.
Michael glanced at her quickly before turning his eyes back to the road. "Since what?" he asked, his voice calm, unpressing. But the weight of his curiosity was there, lingering.Naomi's throat tightened. She shook her head faintly, forcing a thin smile. "Nothing," she replied.
The word sounded small even to her own ears.Michael didn't push. He kept his eyes on the road, his hand steady on the wheel. But his silence wasn't indifferent; it was thoughtful, like someone who recognized a closed door and chose not to force it open. Not now, his mind seemed to say. There would be time.
Naomi turned her face toward the glass, her reflection faint against the city lights. A thousand words pressed against the inside of her chest, but she swallowed them all."Well," Michael broke the silence after a few moments, his tone light again, "we're here."
The car slowed smoothly as he pulled into the restaurant's parking lot. The building glowed softly in the evening light, its glass doors catching the shimmer of chandeliers inside. Naomi's heart skipped—not just from the sight of the place, but from the realization of how much thought he must have put into this.
Michael stepped out quickly, his door shutting with a muted thud. Naomi sat for a moment longer, gathering her breath. The faint rhythm of "Hurt So Bad" still lingered in her head as the car engine hushed.Then her door opened.Michael stood there, framed by the golden glow spilling from the restaurant entrance. He offered his hand with quiet ease. "After you," he said, his voice carrying a warmth that made the simple words feel almost… intimate.
Naomi blinked, startled by the gesture. She wasn't used to it—this kind of old-fashioned chivalry. A flutter ran through her chest as she placed her hand in his, letting him help her out.Her heels clicked lightly against the pavement as she straightened, smoothing the soft fabric of her gown. The evening air wrapped around her, cool and faintly scented with blooming night jasmine from the garden lining the walkway.
Inside, the hum of quiet conversation and the gentle clink of cutlery against plates welcomed them. The restaurant was elegant without being intimidating—warm lighting, polished wooden floors, tables adorned with simple white cloths and candles flickering gently in glass holders.
Michael led the way toward the reception desk, his stride unhurried but confident. Naomi followed, her eyes tracing the details around her, her senses alive.The receptionist, dressed neatly in black and white, greeted them with a practiced smile. "Good evening. Do you have a reservation?""Yes. For two. Michael," he said smoothly.The receptionist glanced down at her book, then nodded. "Right this way."Naomi watched silently as Michael handled everything with calm assurance. It struck her again—the effort he'd taken, the thought behind even this quiet moment. Her lips curved faintly, a smile she hid by tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.They were led through the softly lit dining hall, past tables filled with couples and small groups. The low murmur of voices created a cocoon of privacy around each table, the kind of setting that made secrets feel safe to spill.
The receptionist stopped at a small table near the window. It was set for two, the candle already lit, casting shadows that danced across the glasses.Michael stepped forward first, pulling back the chair with an ease that spoke of habit rather than performance. He gestured toward it with a small smile.Naomi blinked again, caught off guard by the gesture. "Thank you," she said softly as she lowered herself into the seat.As she settled, her thoughts whispered a quiet admission she didn't speak aloud: A gentleman, I guess.
Michael slid into the chair opposite her, his movements unhurried. For a moment, the space between them was filled only by the faint flicker of the candle and the distant sound of a violin playing softly somewhere in the restaurant.Naomi folded her hands in her lap, her mind spinning faster than her outward calm revealed. She felt the weight of the evening pressing gently against her skin—the kind of night where something could happen, something unspoken, something real.Michael leaned back slightly in his chair, his gaze resting on her—not piercing, not heavy, but steady enough that she felt it.
Naomi shifted slightly in her seat, the velvet cushion beneath her somehow too soft, too indulgent, like it belonged in a scene she wasn't supposed to be part of."It's a beautiful restaurant, isn't it?" Micheal's voice sliced through the cocoon of silence that had settled between them.Naomi's eyes flickered up briefly to meet his before darting down again. "Yes, it is," she replied, her voice gentle but steady. She reached for the leather-bound menu in front of her, flipping it open quickly as though the list of entrees demanded her immediate attention. The truth was, she wasn't reading.
The words blurred together, her eyes skimming over steaks, pastas, and seafood without absorbing a single syllable. Her mind was elsewhere—on the way Micheal's eyes seemed to linger when he spoke, on the way his smile came so effortlessly, on how much more intense everything felt now that there wasn't a steering wheel or a song to buffer the space between them.The nervous flutter in her chest grew louder, insistent.
On the ride here, the music had been her shield—Dean Lewis filling the silence, giving her something to hum along to, to lean into. But now, across from him with only a small table separating them, she felt suddenly exposed. Vulnerable. Maybe I should have begged Tasha to chaperone, she thought, biting the inside of her cheek. Tasha would have cracked jokes, pulled the attention away, kept the focus from resting too heavily on her."Well, what would you like to order, ma'am?" Micheal teased, his tone playful as his eyes glinted with mischief. The corner of his lips tugged upward in a smile that reached his eyes.
Naomi let out a small laugh, grateful for the break in tension. "Lol," she said, though the laugh came out softer, warmer, than she intended. She tilted her head, finally lowering the menu and glancing up at him fully. His gaze was steady, patient, as though he had all the time in the world to wait for her to untangle her nerves.Her fingers traced the edge of the menu idly. "I haven't decided yet," she admitted, leaning back slightly in her chair as though that distance would steady her. The truth was, she could hardly remember a single dish she had just skimmed over.
Micheal leaned forward, elbows resting casually on the table, his frame closing the space in a way that felt both comforting and overwhelming. "You seem nervous," he said, his voice soft, more like an observation than a question.Naomi blinked, caught off guard. Her lips parted as if to deny it, but no words came. Instead, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes falling to the glimmering silverware laid neatly before her. "I'm not nervous," she said smiling,even though she could hear the slight tremor laced in her voice.
He didn't press her, not immediately. He simply smiled, leaning back again, giving her space. "Good," he said lightly, reaching for his own menu. "Because nervous people usually make terrible dinner decisions. And I was really hoping you wouldn't order the most boring thing here."That earned him a genuine laugh from her, soft but real, easing the tightness in her chest. She shook her head. "And what would you consider boring?""Grilled chicken with plain rice." He smirked. "Every restaurant has it, and it always tastes the same. Safe. Predictable.""Safe doesn't sound too bad sometimes," Naomi countered, her smile lingering now."True," Micheal conceded, his eyes glinting again as he held her gaze for just a second longer than felt casual. "But sometimes the best things aren't safe, he said.
"Naomi's heart gave a small, unsteady leap. She looked away quickly, back at the menu, though her mind wasn't really on the dishes. The words best things aren't safe echoed faintly in her head, mingling with the rhythm of the jazz and the clink of glasses in the background.She tried to focus, letting her eyes land on a seafood pasta that sounded promising. "Maybe I'll try this," she said, her voice lighter now, steadier."Seafood pasta?" Micheal asked, glancing at the menu to confirm. "Good choice. Bold, but not reckless."Naomi rolled her eyes, though her lips twitched with amusement. "And what about you?Naomi asked.
"He grinned, closing his menu without looking again. "I already knew what I wanted before we walked in."Her brows lifted slightly. "Really?"Naomi asked amidst chuckles. "Yeah. Steak. Medium rare. It's kind of my thing," he said with a small shrug, as though confessing something personal.Naomi laughed softly, tilting her head. "Of course. Predictable."
"Not predictable," he argued playfully. "Classic. There's a difference."Their banter slid easily now, lighter with each exchange, weaving its way through the space that had once been taut with unspoken nerves. Naomi felt herself relax into it, her laughter more natural, her shoulders less tense. The air between them warmed, no longer fragile but charged with something subtle, something she couldn't quite name.
The waiter appeared, pad in hand, and Naomi gave her order. Micheal followed with his, his voice steady and certain, before handing the menus back. When the waiter left, they were alone again, save for the soft hum of the room.Naomi's fingers drummed lightly against her glass of water. She wanted to say something—anything—to bridge the silence before it grew heavy again. But Micheal spoke first."You know," he began, his voice gentle, almost thoughtful, "you're different than I expected."Her head tilted, curiosity piqued. "Different how?"He leaned back, his gaze studying her, though not in a way that made her uncomfortable. More like he was trying to piece something together. "I don't know," he said after a pause. "I thought you'd be… less shy and more outspoken,you know that kind of loudness that most ladies always have,always want to talk about themselves.But you're quieter. It's like you're holding something back, but it makes you…" He stopped, searching for the right word. "Intriguing."Naomi felt heat rise to her cheeks, her lips parting slightly at his words. "Intriguing". No one had ever described her that way before.
She didn't know whether to accept it or deflect it, so she chose the safer route—deflection."Or maybe I'm just trying to figure out how to survive seafood pasta without embarrassing myself," she said lightly, though her heart beat just a little faster.Micheal chuckled, shaking his head. "No. It's more than that."