"How do you fix it?" she asked after swallowing. "The rotting grief?"
"You don't fix grief," I told her. "You acknowledge it. Give it space to breathe instead of burying it beneath false cheer. You let yourself be broken sometimes, and trust that you won't shatter completely."
Her eyes didn't leave mine as she absorbed my words. The lights overhead seemed to dim slightly, responding to the intensity of our exchange, casting us in an intimate shadow that felt appropriate for such naked honesty.
"And who do you trust to see you broken?" she asked, the question revealing more about her isolation than any confession could have.
I didn't answer immediately, letting the question hang between us. Then, slowly, I reached for her hand across the table.
"Someone who sees your value beyond what you can give them," I said finally. "Someone who wants you whole, not just useful."
Her fingers trembled slightly within my grasp, but she didn't pull away.
I signaled the waiter without looking away from Simone's face, where the remnants of our conversation about grief still lingered in her eyes. The creature appeared at my elbow with silent, awaiting instruction. "The molten chocolate withspiced berries," I said, not bothering to consult the menu. Her brows furrowed slightly at being excluded from the decision, that instinctive need to control small choices flaring briefly before resignation settled across her features. Good. Learning to receive rather than always give would be a hard lesson for her, but necessary.
The waiter vanished with a slight shimmer of displacement magic, leaving us alone again in our snow-globe sanctuary. The heat lamps pulsed warmer as the temperature outside dropped further, their enchantment responding to the needs of patrons without requiring adjustment. Simone had withdrawn her hand from mine, returning it to her lap where I could see her fingers worrying at the velvet of her new dress, creasing and smoothing the fabric in a nervous rhythm.
The dessert arrived quickly, materializing in the center of our table with a puff of cinnamon-scented steam. The presentation was artful, a small volcano of dark chocolate cake, its center liquid and molten, surrounded by a moat of crimson berries that gleamed like jewels in the magical lighting. The scent alone was intoxicating, bitter chocolate, sweet fruit, warming spices that hinted at cinnamon, cardamom, and something more exotic that probably didn't exist in the human realm.
Simone's eyes widened, her lips parting slightly in appreciation. I could see the desire plain on her face, the childlike want of something decadent and beautiful. Yet she made no move to take the spoon that had appeared alongside the dessert.
"You're not allergic," I said, making it a statement rather than a question. "I checked your employee records."
She shook her head. "No, it's not that. It looks amazing. It's just..." She trailed off, one hand rising to tuck a curl behind her ear.
"Just what?" I prompted, already knowing the answer but wanting her to articulate it.
"I don't need it," she said finally. "It's probably expensive, and I'm already full from the stew, and—"
"And you don't believe you deserve indulgence," I finished for her, watching the truth of my words register in her expression. "You've convinced yourself that pleasure is only acceptable when earned through sufficient suffering or service."
She flinched slightly, confirming my assessment. "That's not—"
"It is," I interrupted, reaching for the spoon. "And it stops now."
I cut through the cake's exterior, revealing the molten center that flowed like dark silk onto the plate. I gathered a perfect bite, cake, liquid center, a single glistening berry, and extended it across the table toward her.
"Eat," I commanded.
The spoon hovered between us, steam curling from the chocolate in lazy spirals. Her eyes darted from the dessert to my face, gauging my seriousness.
"Why does this matter to you?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "Whether I eat cake or not?"
"Because pleasure is not a luxury, Simone. It's a necessity." I kept the spoon steady between us. "And you've been starving yourself of it for too long."
Slowly, hesitantly, she leaned forward and parted her lips. I slipped the spoon into her mouth, watching as her eyes instinctively closed at the first taste. The transformation was immediate and profound. Her face softened completely. The lines of tension around her mouth eased, her forehead smoothed, and something like wonder replaced the perpetual caution in her expression.
When her eyes opened again, they shone with simple, uncomplicated pleasure. And then it happened, her lips curved upward in a smile so authentic that it felt like witnessing a rare natural phenomenon. This was pure, unfiltered Simone, appreciative and present and unashamedly enjoying something offered freely.
I went completely still.
I'd witnessed the rise and fall of civilizations, observed countless human expressions of joy and sorrow, been present for the most significant moments in history and the most mundane daily rituals. None of it had prepared me for the impact of this woman's genuine smile. It struck forgotten within me, a place that remembered what it was to experience wonder, to see beauty unfolding. She was radiant.
"That's..." She searched for words, licking a trace of chocolate from her lower lip. "That might be the most delicious thing I've ever tasted."
I realized I was still holding the spoon suspended between us. I gathered another bite of the dessert, focusing on the motion to steady myself against the unexpected impact of her smile.
"More?" I offered.
